You can run with us
by Valandhir
Summary: John Sheppard gets captured by the Wraith, they turn him into a Runner.
1. Chapter 1: This isn't happening

**Chapter 1: This isn't happening**

_same old question  
without words  
so familiar  
seldom heard  
if I answer  
I confess  
I am only  
just a guess  
and with my eyes  
it's hard to see  
with my ears it's  
hard to believe that  
if I ever lose my will to live  
it was me that I could not forgive_

_(Over the Rhine – Moth)_

„With the Wraith factions becoming more organised, their attacks are picking up pace again, the cullings are hitting all the harder on the populace." Teyla's words were forcibly calm, but the tension was clearly audible. "Other threats have made the situation even more tense."

Richard Woolsey did not to look back to the small pile of reports in front of him. These days he was grateful, that at least the Replicators were taken out of the equation, or the whole situation would have been out of control months ago. "And yet, with this situation getting from bad to worse out there, you are still convinced that I should visit that Planet P452-81 myself?" He inquired, his gaze directed at Col. Sheppard.

"It would be a great tactical advantage having them on our side," Sheppard observed. "These people are trading with an enormous amount of worlds, have access to a wide variety of goods and are pretty good when it comes to intel. They want to meet the leader of Atlantis – meaning you – in person, and they won't set a foot into the city of the ancestors, as they have none among their ranks right now, who would be 'worthy' of that honour."

"Apparently, they connect a lot of mysticism with the Ancients – a… as we have observed with many other races here so far, but they have developed a kind of 'test' or 'rite' to determine the worthiness of a person. Unfortunately the only one to pass this test in the last seven decades his off world and will not be back with them for some months," Rodney interjected.

"They are Lan'Tyran – followers of the Lanteans," Ronon explained. "Sateda traded with them on occasion and we were careful not to offend their beliefs too much."

Woolsey closed the folder and set it aside. "Well then, as my one-year-evaluation with the IOA has been rescheduled for another week, I should be able to make this trip." He replied. "Your team will be accompanying me." As the team filed out of the conference room, Woolsey forced himself to straighten up. With the evaluation drawing near he felt somewhat apprehensive. When he had arrived here, one year ago, he had been confident and optimistic. The situation of Atlantis was getting better and he had believed that, with some proper rules, things would continue to go well. But from the start things had been far more chaotic than he had expected. And now, these past few weeks it looked much like the Wraith began overcoming their civil war and were well on the way of being a threat once again. There were days when he wished he had never left Washington.

***

The settlement stretched all around the gate, the outer walls forming a near perfect circle. John Sheppard had noticed the symbolism at his first arrival here, along with the complex defences of the place. The people of this world were clearly not likely to fall for an surprise attack. It took a trained eye, to realise that those pleasant stone houses, arching gateways and pleasant courtyards, made one hell of a maze to fight in, should an enemy make it into the city. And John was also sure, that there was an even greater maze of tunnels, traps and caverns right below their feet. But at the moment he was focused on their more immediate surroundings. They stood in the settlements central place, right in front of the gate and Woolsey was welcomed by the Elders of the Lan'Tyran. A full honour guard stood silent and unmoving to the sides of the Elders and all of the four gates, that led away from this square had heavily armed guard details standing under the graceful arches. Arches that reminded John all too clearly of the Greek letter Omega. Another symbol hidden in the architecture. "Colonel, this is Vintár, Captain-General of our troops," Elder Rycár formally introduced John to a tall man, with dark already greying hair and watchful eyes.

John had not met the man before but heard a great deal about him. "An honour to meet you, Sir," he said and he meant it. From what he had heard at least five Wraith attacks had been repelled thanks to the planning, quick thinking and sheer bravery of this man.

"No, Colonel Sheppard – the honour is mine." Vintár replied, inclining his head in a way that hinted at a semi-formal bow.

John Sheppard bit his lip. He had already encountered the tremendous respect these people held for the descendants of the Ancients. He had no idea how he in person had acquired the reputation of being of 'their blood themselves', but it made them treat him like he was of royal blood, every time he was among them. Yet, he had not expected that a veteran of Vintárs standing would do so. "You have the place heavily guarded." He changed topic, hoping to escape more embarrassment.

Vintár nodded. "That's true. I am sorry that it comes at this time, with your people honouring us with their presence – but one of my scouts found a Runner mark on the edge of the eastern woods last night, and this can mean we may have an attack upon us, before we know it."

John shortly gazed to Woolsey and the Elders, both sides seemed to love longwinded speeches, thus he returned his attention to Vintár. "A Runner Mark?" ,he inquired. "I always believed they avoided leaving any kind of tracks." He did not need to explain that he knew about runners, these people had known that the Atlantians had freed a Runner before the team had arrived here for the first time.

Vintár gestured to one of his men – his second in command – who handed him a small book. Opening the book he showed John a drawing of a simple flat ring of stone, that was engraved with some simple letters. "That's a Runner mark," he explained. "they leave it usually, to warn people not to approach a certain portion of the woods, to avoid contact. They'll be around a day or two and then they'll be gone. Thus they make sure, the Wraith don't hit the settlement just because they were around." He sighed. "Not that it works always – we had a few attacks because of Runners in the area, but it reduces the chances of things going bad. None of our people will approach the eastern woods for the next week or two, just to be sure. Still, it doesn't hurt to be cautious."

"I never heard of Runners that did that before." John observed. "Still it makes sense, as they seem to be inclined to protect the innocent people of the worlds they visit." John vividly remembered Ronon fighting his guilt and willingness to accept punishment for what happened to that other village. His thoughts stopped cold in his tracks. "But… wait… you have the Gate here under constant observation. How could runners possibly come here, let alone leave again?"

Vintár raised his hand, pointing east. "Beyond those hills, where the foothills rise up to the mountains are the ruins of an outpost of the Ancestors," he said. "And there is another gate there – deep down in the bowels of the outpost. I do not know how the Ancestors made it happen, nor what address the other gate has – but we know it is there and it is used from time to time."

"That's a virtual impossibility, we saw on Earth what happens with two gates on the same planet. If the Ancients had figured out a way past this problem, they would have applied in Antarctica." Rodney was his usual fast talking self, ignoring everything around him and also the social niceties going on.

"I believe you, Rodney. But they say there is a second gate, and that's how the Runners come here. Ronon, have you ever heard of a Runner mark?" The moment John asked, he knew it was a bad idea. Ronon flinched, then shrugged. "Now and then." His voice made clear that he did not wish to discuss the topic any further. The whole team returned it's attention to the tour through the settlement and John found himself in another conversation with Vintár, who explained him some of the defences they had built here.

***

The man who was lying flat on the ground, up on the rocky ledge, and watching the settlement through his field glasses, was dressed in ragged clothing. A sword was resting beside him, as well as a gun. Lean and tanned, short cropped brown hair and edgy features, he looked like a hardy character around thirty years of age. He wasn't alone. Behind a rock, only a step away knelt another man. Taller, with long black hair, and a scar running up his left arm. He too studied the settlement through field glasses. "You were right – Ronon's with them." , he said in low tones.

"I was counting on it." ,was the gruff reply. "it will make believing the information we so conveniently dropped a little easier for them. Hearing stories about the High Wraith his one thing, believing another."

The black haired one set aside his field glasses and leaned relaxed against the rocks. His sword, a gun and another short sword were resting right beside him. "Do you really think, Ronon would have told them? He was still ashamed when he met Cayelán, and still is, I guess."

The other one did not sit up, but looked to his companion. "Nothing to be ashamed about, he saved a lot of lives that day. Even as it was only for a time. And when he hears the intel – the High Wraith awakening from their long slumber – he will probably tell them, ashamed or not."

The darkhaired one shook his head. "I am not sure about that. Despite the fact that Ronon was Satedan, and not much of a worshipper of the Ancestors, it still IS a tremendous honour to be among the Atlantean warriors, he might keep silent if he feels they might disapprove."

"He will do what it right – he is Satedan, he had honour.", the other replied less gruffly. Thoughtfully he stared down towards the settlement, without taking up his field glasses again. "Sometimes I envy him, he was luckier than us – he was saved."

"Truly?" ,his companion asked. "You could be saved too – your transmitter may sit in an unusual location, but they should be able to cut it out. All you need to do is walk down that hill and dare to meet them."

The gruff one sat carefully up, hiding in the shadow of a fallen tree. Like always his companion spoke lightly of the fact, that his transmitter would never be removed. Could not be removed. "It's something else…" he said after a while. "Ronon was stronger than us, he dared to stop running. I'm not sure I could."

His companion nodded. "I know, my friend. I know."

The conversation stopped for a while, both a little uncomfortable with the topic they had just touched. "Did you find a blocker?" ,the gruff one asked after a while.

The dark haired one nodded. "Aye. But be careful with using it. It can mute the transmitter for about ten days – but used to often…."

"I know, I know, it's dangerous. It's only for emergencies anyway." The brown haired man pointed down towards the settlement. "What do you think – with our transmitters silent for some time – do we sneak down and watch the information being delivered?"

The dark haired man had already risen. "No, I would never underestimate Ronon's senses. He'd feel, KNOW, that there is somebody familiar around and he would go looking. We hide, lie low, and go our ways the moment they have left, Paryan."

Paryan nodded, his eyes still on the settlement down in the valley. "I wonder if Ronon ever told them of us, of Shankwyr and Saldéar, of the dead worlds…"

The dark haired one walked over, bent down in front of his friend. "No, he would not. He swore to never reveal the secret, remember? 'Not under torture, not under threat, not in dying, not in desperation and not to save the person he loves most.' And he will keep his word, even after this incompetent fool of a Wraith turned him, he kept his silence." It had been a story they both had heard, when they had been sneaking around and listened to villagers talking in the woods, when they had snuck up on weapon's traders hideouts at night, to steal some ammo, or when they had patiently lay in wait close to a gate for an unguarded moment. The story of Tyre and Ronon had been around soon, another sad Satedan story to remember a lost world by.

Paryan chuckled. "If the High Wraith are wakening it may be worth watching, and be it just to see this idiot of a Wraith and the hive who turned Ronon runner, suffer for their idiocy."

A smile, that did not reach the cold blue eyes, lit on his friend's face. "Believe that and it will give you the strength for another year. Come on, we have to get moving."

***

"Most of the Archways can easily secured by falling grates. The grate comes down, and gets locked inside the stone ground, by another bar fixing it. Once down, it can only get released by the mechanism."

John studied the construction silently. He had seen more than his share of combat in close quarters and barricaded streets and knew a deadly trap when he saw one. The whole city was built as one big trap for the Wraith. "Most impressive." ,he observed. Some lessons could clearly be drawn from these structures. If they could be adopted by some other tribes, it may enable some more people to give up on nomadic live.

Vintár looked around. "We should go back to the town hall, the ceremony should begin soon."

John had been glad to get away from Woolsey's speeches for a while, but he nodded politely. "Of course. The Hall is an impressive building, from what I saw up till now. Why did you built it so far away from the gate?"

"The Hall was founded on a formation of a rare granite." Vintár replied. "We call it 'guarding stone'. A building built from the material is practically immune to cullings. The beam of light can't get through it. In times of need many people can hide in the hall and it's cellars."

Sheppard had just wanted to reply something, ask another question, but he got interrupted by a young man, that came running towards them. He came to a halt, pale, nearly shaking. "Vintár – it's getting dark – cold – they are coming!"

"Sound the alert – get the people to the shelters – then block off the archways and close all gates." Vintár ordered. "Mobilise all men." He turned to Sheppard. "I'll bring you back to the townhall, you should be safe there."

Sheppard shook his head, and disabled the security on his gun. "Won't be necessary. I am with you." He fixed Vintár with a stare, that would hopefully end all debates right now.

Vintár nodded. "If you wish so."

For the first time Sheppard was glad, that these people tended to hero-worship him, it spared him a lot of arguments.

***

"This is madness – utter madness." Richard Woolsey could not help himself, but repeat those words again. Trapped in a building, that – while being safe from cullings – was the main target of the Wraith attack, was enough to make him fear. But the wild battle raging outside was inclined to drive him into a state of panic. Darts were chasing above the settlement, culling people out of the streets and right out of the fighting, bombing heavy defences, the southern part of the city was burning. The Wraith troops were numerous, outnumbering the defenders five to one. The people of this city fought them as hard and bitter as only a hardened race of survivors could, but still it was only a matter of time until the Wraith troops would push through. Ronon and Teyla had joined the defenders of the Town Hall, after preventing the surprise attack on the building the Wraith had been staging.

Again the ground was shaking, as another series of explosives hit ground. Woolsey tried not to shake. "There is no reason to fear – those explosions were our own." ,Elder Rycár said softly. "A great number of Wraith troops amassed in a building or courtyard and our troops blew it up."

"How – how do you know?" Woolsey was grateful for any distraction. Even if it meant discussing the battle.

"I know the sound of them. They are everywhere below the town, in the structures of the buildings themselves."

"You…. Your rigged your own city with explosives?" Woolsey couldn't help himself, he sounded like he was panicking. "Just…just in case?"

Elder Rycár nodded. "Buildings can be rebuilt, destroyed streets can be restored, it saved us more than one time, that we were able to destroy the mass of the Wraith troops this way." He obviously saw that his words did not help to calm down Richard Woolsey. "Captain-General Vintár is a most experienced commander and knows what he is doing." ,he said. "He has kept this town secure and alive for the better part of thirty years. He will make sure that no harm comes to you."

As the morning dawned above the grey clouds it seemed to Woolsey that Rycárs words were coming true. The Wraith were retreating. The shooting, that had been right around the building some time in the night, was now farther away and got lower with every other half hour that passed. "They are pushing through!" Ronon, who still was standing at a window, ready to fire again, pointed outside.

Woolsey rose and walked over to the window. Down, in the courtyard before the walls, protecting the town hall, was a heavy fight going on. The Wraith that sill held this spot, were not willing to give up, but the cities defenders were pushing through. Woolsey could see their leader- they Captain- General just beheading a Wraith with a blade, while another man took out a Wraith in the back of Vintár. It took Woolsey a moment to recognise the man guarding the Captain-General's back as Sheppard. The Colonel looked like hell, bloodstain, wounded but still fighting. He gestured up, to another troop, and a series of explosions made a building collapse right on top of a Wraith troop.

They did not stop, but turned around, attacking what remained of the Wraith troops. A warning shout echoed through the courtyard, Woolsey saw Vintár spin around, throwing his blade to nail down another Wraith, trying to push Sheppard out of the way, but stumbled and fell hit by another Wraithblade. A dart swooped down, a white beam of light fell down into the courtyard, like a ray of sunlight through the clouds, and when it spun up again, Colonel Sheppard was gone.

****

John awoke in the darkness. He did not need to look up – he knew where he was. It was the familiar darkness of a Wraith ship. He could never really tell what made this darkness onboard of Wraithships so different from any other darkness he knew. Perhaps it was the certain knowledge, the cold feeling, that there was more in the shadows than he would like to know.

He came to his feet. As far as he could see he was alone in the cell. In a way he was glad about it – it meant the Wraith had not managed to cull too many people off that planet. A dozen or so pains shot up in his body, reminding him of the battle he had been through. He thought of Vintár, the last thing he had seen, was Vintár stumbling hit by another Wraithblade. It had not to mean much, Vintár had suffered some similar wounds already during the battle. Still, John could only hope, that the Captain-General was okay.

The door of his cell opened and a Wraith strode in, accompanied by four guards. John straightened up, even as a cold know rose inside him, he would face them on his feet.

The Wraith scrutinized him, hissing loudly, sniffing the air. Then he spun around. "Get him healed, he is no use in this shape."

***

John had no way to tell how much time had passed. Another Wraith had come and taken care of his wounds. Declining the offer had not been an option, four guards had held John down for every treatment. He had slept a couple of times, but never knew how long. After the third time he had laid down to sleep, the Wraith took him from the cell and dragged through the corridors of the ship. He struggled as they placed him, facedown on a table. But they already knew that they had too keep down four at a time. The Wraith healer returned, sniffing at John. "You are strong – good." He hissed.

"Strong enough for what?" John spat, trying to free himself.

"To be prepared."

A burning pain shot through John's left shoulder and down his arm. He bit his lip, he wouldn't give them satisfaction to have him scream. The Wraith hissed again. "You are burning bright – your will is strong. Good."

He gestured the guards and they let John sit up, always at gunpoint of four Wraithstunners. Now John saw, that the Wraith from the first day in the cell was also present. He hissed softly. "It is time, John Sheppard. You want to live – you run."

"You want to let me go? Good." John didn't like the sound of those words at all. But he would deal with it, when he had time for it.

The Wraith's lips twitched in an unpleasant smile, then he raised his hand, something small resting in the palm. "This," he hissed. "is your subcutaneous transmitter. We removed it and gave you a tracking device. Should you come close to a person with one of these…" again he hissed, then put the transmitter into a jar and nodded to the Wraith healer, who activated a device beside him. With a bright ping the jar exploded.

John paled. "What have you done…."

"Come close to someone with such a device implanted and it will explode – instantaneously." The Wraith said. "And now – you run. From this moment on – John Sheppard – you are the prey." Impatiently he gestured towards the other Wraith.

A white light embraced John Sheppard again, and when he could see again, he stood in the middle of a forest. A pile of clothes and a knife beside him. They had made him a runner.


	2. Chapter 2: The hunt begins

Disclaimer: I do not own Stargate Sg1/SGA it's characters or other recognisable details, they all are property of their respecive owners. This is a work of non-profit fanfiction and no money whatsoever is made here.

**Chapter 2: The hunt begins**

_Wondrous to wander through mists!  
Parted are bush and stone:  
None to the other exists,  
Each is standing alone._

_(Herman Hesse: In the mists)_

The wind swept over the rolling hillsides and was howling around the walls of the city. The Guards at the gates had long retreated under the protection of the deep gateway. In the midst of another autumn storm the Guards were glad to escape at least the chilly cold of the eastern winds. Close stood they together, staring into the grey afternoon that was rapidly darkening. Carefully did they watch out, the walls were still breached in several places, from the battle not long ago. And it was well possible some enemy tried to sneak up to them. Still, the harsh wind made them retreat below the archways more than often. So they never saw the dark figure that left its hideout near one of the tall trees and started creeping around the tower when the afternoon grew gloomy.

John Sheppard peered cautiously around the thick oaken tree. The old tree had been a perfect hideout from he guards and everybody else for all the day. Now, in the evening, he dared to leave the den at It's roots, where he had sat unmoving during the brighter hours of the day, and looked around. He had escaped his hunters up till now by carefully sneaking around and hiding whenever possible. The night before a Wraith had stood no two steps away from his hideout and had never sensed his presence. Some things he had learned from Ronon had not gone to waste obviously. Now he could only hope that he managed to bring the message close enough to be found and sneak off before anybody realised he was there. It had taken him more than three days to get back towards the settlement, and he would not ruin his plan by being impatient.

Carefully he looked around. The city walls were damaged in three places, guards at every breach. John winced, the battle had extracted quite a toll on Vintár's people. But with all the guards out here, there would be a good chance, that his message would be found and in turn be delivered to Atlantis. Silently he moved, creeping towards the shadow of a fallen tree. In all the noise the storm made, it was easy enough to avoid being heard. He ducked under another rock, watching the gate. The guards had turned around, gesturing to someone inside the Archway. Some more people came towards the city gate, carefully peering out into the rapidly darkening evening.

John Sheppard nearly froze in place. The man standing at the gate with the guards was Major Lorne and he seemed inclined to check the area outside the city with his team. Inwardly John Sheppard cursed. If he came too close to Lorne, Lorne's subcutaneous transmitter would explode, killing the man in the process. John stared over to Lorne, silently willing him to go back to the city, to retreat back into the safety of the walls. But Lorne did only gesture his team to follow him out into the storm. John sighed, he could not risk coming too close to Lorne and his people. He had no idea what the critical distance was, and he would not endanger them. Thus he began retreating again, back into the woods he had come from.

***

The second Wraith nearly got John Sheppard. It had taken him only one moment too long to dispose of the first one, but then he already felt the clawlike hand at his throat. In reflex he gripped the Wraith's arm, buckled forward, throwing his enemy to the ground. A kick, a punch, another kick, followed in rapid succession, John successfully dodged the next attack, ramming his knife into the Wraith's belly. The Wraith screamed as he fell, John finished him off fast.

Panting he stopped, his hand were covered in Wraith blood, he felt about a dozen fresh injuries, all over his body. And he had no time. This was the ninth hunting team he had encountered and there were probably more in the forest. He had to get away from here, away form this world, to get some distance between himself and the hunters. But how? Returning to the settlement and the gate was out of question, the last thing the city needed was another Wraith attack. He didn't even want to think about the fact, that Major Lorne and his team were still there. John's presence would not only endanger but kill them. Going back was not an option.

After taking the Wraith's weapons John began another run deeper into the forest. It was harder than it had been the days before, the hills were steeper, rising higher with deeper valleys in between them. He was crossing the foothills of the mountains now. The foothills… what had Vintár said about them? The ruins of an Ancient outpost and another gate were supposed to be there, somewhere. John took a deep breath, the trick would be finding them.

***

"Nothing, no tracks, no signs whatsoever and nothing else either." Major Lorne sounded as frustrated as he actually was. "and these woods are crawling with Wraith."

"There was a runner here, some days ago." Ronon replied. "The Wraith here are probably just a hunting party." The tall man had not rested since the day of the battle, and the exhaustion slowly caught up with him.

Lorne sighed. "Yeah, we found some of them dead, killed at a close distance, with a blade. Whoever he is – he is good at what he does. But we found none of their darts, or other ships groundside." And there went all their hopes they had harboured on rescuing John Sheppard from the hive ship, before it was too late. For the first time Major Lorne found himself understanding how the villagers on all those worlds felt, when a culling hit them. There was no one to save those who were lost, and the chances to do so were perhaps slimmer than he had ever admitted to himself.

"Perhaps we can catch one of them alive, find out what he knows and where they took Col. Sheppard." Teyla suggested after a moment of uncomfortable silence. Again the Wraith had taken someone close to her, and she feared that this time there was no hope of finding him again.

Lorne nodded, in his mind already making plans. "Might work. Ronon, what is the best way to trap a Wraith?"

Ronon shrugged, his eyes were out on the hills outside the settlement. There was something out there, he could feel it, a presence known to him. Every fibre of his being called to him to leave the city and the people behind and go out alone, to find whoever might be there. Slowly exhaling he checked those desires firmly, he had to be strong, he had to find John back, no matter what. Focusing on Major Lorne he said: "When I trap, I kill. But if you want to lure a Wraith to you, you are offering him an easy prey as a bait."

***

It was already dark when John found the corpse. It was a Wraith spiked with wooden stakes, pinned to a tree like a rag doll. At first John had only seen the white hair and hidden away, before he realised that this Wraith did not move any more. Carefully he examined the corpse, it was not fresh but also not much older than 24 hours. So somebody had taken the pains to set up traps in the area. A jolt of new hope rose inside him, if a Runner had set traps here, than he might be closer to his target than he had believed. If he followed that trail it might lead him to the ruins and the other gate.

Finding tracks in the darkness proved undoable soon enough, the night was falling all too quickly, leaving John no choice in this matter. Carefully slipping below a heavy branch, he suddenly found himself face to face with a long naked branch, spiked with sharp pointed sticks, a rope still kept it in place.

John raised his hand, carefully studying the contraption before him. Another trap, one that had not been sprung up till now. Taking most cautious steps he left the trap alone, turning left towards the steep hillside. He was only a few paces away from the place when he felt the ground all too soft below his foot. Stopping in his tracks he crouched down, examining the ground with his bare hands thoroughly. Truly, it was another trap! Peering in the darkness around him John wondered why somebody had cared to place so many traps in such a close vicinity. Carefully, always aware of the imminent danger, he began to check the ground around him. It was too much like checking some dreary road in the Afghan mountains for mines. Forcing himself to breathe slowly John went on, he had done it once, he could do it again.

The traps formed a tight circle around the steeper part of the hillside, most of them were still ready and none was like the other. John was very sure he had not found all of them. Carefully, keeping down and in some cover as far as possible, he approached the centre of the circle. In the darkness it was hard to see anything. Beyond the fact, that some rocks and tree were ahead, he saw only blackness. Leaning forward some more to examine another patch of wet ground with his hands, John found his hands grasping empty air, he lost his balance, tumbled forward and fell into a hole in the ground.

The fall was mercifully short, but still painful enough. Groaning John sat up. He saw next to nothing. Whatever scare light bad been shed by the stars up there, did not reach down into this hole. He tried to get to his feet, but before he was even crouching he hit his head. So it was dark and narrow down here. On his hands and knees he proceeded on, following the earthy tunnel that still fell softly downward. After a while the tunnel broadened into a larger area. In the pitched darkness around him John could only feel his way with his hands.

His fingers found something between the earth and the stones, something metallic. Carefully he examined it before picking it up. It was about as long as a pen and of similar shape. When he picked it up it sprang alive, softly vibrating between his fingers before shedding a soft green light around.

John had to give his eyes some time to adjust to the sudden light. Blinking he took in his surroundings, he was in a small cave in the earth and what he saw was nothing else but the remains of a camp.

Raising the green light he crouched into the middle of the cave. It had clearly been a camp some days ago, abandoned now but the tracks were still clearly visible.

Slowly John sat down, leaning against the wall of the cave, he was tired and this was the best place t rest he would find. Trying to ignore the hungry gnawing in his stomach, he studied his surroundings. There was not much, he could see some dry bones of some small animal, a den in the ground, someone had slept there and some wood stacked up at the far side of the cave.

John was sure he had found the Runner's camp, the Runner who had left the mark at the edge of the woods. Vaguely he wondered who the other Runner might have been. The other Runner… it was perhaps the first time that John found himself using this word referring to himself. He was still determined to find a solution for his situation, but as of now he could not deny it any longer – he was a Runner.

Again he took in the dank cave. Strange to remember now how often Rodney had called Ronon a caveman. Had it been like that for Ronon? One day a soldier, defending his homeworld, the next day hiding out in a cave, trying to survive? Some indeterminable time later, John's exhaustion claimed it's right and he fell asleep.

It was a stir in the darkness that woke him. John's hand came up, knife at the ready. But there was nothing. Only darkness, silent and impenetrable was around him. Motionless John listened, listened into the darkness surrounding him, but there was nothing. No Wraith jumping at him, no weapon's fire, no danger. Only now did he realise how hard his heart was pounding. Running his hand through his hair he sighed. He must not get paranoid, he told himself. He needed to stay sane. Crawling out of the tunnel he saw it was already dawn. Time to go on, time to find the Ancient's base.

***

Jircanor knelt completely still behind the wrecked remains of the bunker. It didn't need his field glasses to see this one coming. John Sheppard moved swiftly through the dangerous territory. Jircanor smiled, he had watched the young Runner for about three days now and had come to admire the Atlantean warrior. He clearly lacked the harsh training, that from earliest childhood on instilled the ability to survive, but still held himself admirably against the never good odds. Jircanor had seen how Sheppard had killed a group of Wraith chasing after him, and ambushing a second one. He showed the markings of a survivor.

He still needed to learn some caution, though. He had been smart enough to detect the traps and find Jircanor's old hideout. He even had the sense to see that it was a rather safe place and rested there. But he had slept too deeply. Jircanor had entered the cave and come close enough the be right beside the sleeping man without waking him up. And even after waking up, Sheppard had never realised that Jircanor was there. He would have to learn to never truly sleep, if he was to survive.

His smile turned a little sad. The Wraith had gotten their first Atlantean Runner, they would boast about that for a long time to come. Like they had when they got their hands on Cayelan, perhaps even more, because the Atlanteans were their greatest enemy of record. Silently Jircanor watched Sheppard making his way past him and uphill towards the ruins of the Ancient's outpost. Jircanor did not hinder him. Paryan had departed two days ago, so there was no one up there. Still the Runner could not help himself but watch how Sheppard made his way up to the ruins.

Right now Jircanor was sorely tempted to give up his hiding and let Sheppard see him. The young man had done nothing to deserve the fate of so many young Runners. 'Never approach them when they are new and unproven. It is too dangerous.' He reminded himself again. He did not believe that Sheppard was a worshipper sent to lure the Runners into a trap, but still – Jircanor could not bring himself to raise and let the young Runner see him. He watched him until he vanished in the ruins.

***

The upper parts of the Ancient's outpost proved to be nothing but rubble. Here and there a wall was standing, a column reminding of days long past, but nothing more. John did not care much, except for keeping down, moving unseen. It did not take long for him to see, that there was an area in the ruins, where the rubble had been cleared away. Not that it looked like it, there was rubble still there, but it was too well arranged to have fallen naturally. He sneaked over and discovered a shaft that fell from the surface to some room below. It was dark down there, but John was sure, that this was the shortest way he would possible get. Sitting down, he checked that he was alone before he let himself slide down the shaft. He had found what he was looking for.

***

Trapping a Wraith proved far more complicated than Ronon had ever anticipated. Up till now he had never realised, that most Wraith preferred death to capture. But right now, in these crumbling ruins it looked like they were finally going to succeed. The Wraith they had been chasing up here, had been distracted and careless. He had realised much too late, that this was a dead end, no way out. Ronon grinned, now they just had to subdue him.

Blinding white lights shone suddenly all around them. Ronon spat a curse – more Wraith had just found them. He shot the first one, the second got a knife into his ribs, two more he had to fend off with his blade. Where was the Major with his men? Probably fighting somewhere below the ruins. Damn it! With all his strength Ronon threw himself into the fighting.

***

The distorted sounds of fighting were audible even down here. Sheppard sighed. More Wraith were coming. He had to get out of here, fast. He would have liked to explore this place, there was ancient technology still running here, and the gate was the oddest of them. Not the gate itself so much, it looked pretty much like all the gates John had seen on his journeys so far, but the DHD had been heavily modified. Some other stuff was rigged up and connected with the DHD. Someone had scratched additional symbols on some of the plates on the DHD. John did not know why, perhaps this DHD had come from another world, where it had been using a different set of signs, or it was serving a purpose Sheppard did not know.

A little apprehensive he began dialling the gate. The sequence ran as it always did, Chevron after Chevron was locking. John looked up, to the shaft he had let himself slide down. The fighting drew closer, he could hear the shrieks of some Wraiths up there. Again he looked to the gate five Chevrons locked, two to go. He hoped the address would work properly. The last thing he needed was to pull a Carter here and to re-figure all addresses for this system.

The corpse of a Wraith came falling down the shaft, followed by another one. The shrieks got louder up there. The seventh Chevron locked. John sprinted to the gate and passed through it, without turning back. Only moments later, dragging two Wraiths with him, Ronon Dex came sliding down the shaft, landing on the DHD.

***

"Nothing." Ronon pointed downwards. "The rest of them must have used the gate to escape. The wormhole was just collapsing when I came down there."

Major Lorne had sat down on a pile of rubble. "At least are retreating. That's something." He stopped for a moment. "There was something strange, that happened in the middle of the fighting."

"Strange? Except that the Wraith were disorganised?" Ronon cleaned up his bloodied blade on the rest of a Wraithcloak.

"No, when their reinforcements arrived, somebody supported us. He got them right in their back and killed some of them." Lorne pointed over to the other side of the hill. "The moment I saw him, taking down another Wraith, I wanted to order two of my men to split up, team up with him and…" Lorne decided to forgo the tactic's lesson. "The thing is – when he saw, that I saw him, he raised his hand and threw something towards a singular tree. I had one of my men look for it when the fighting was over. They found this." He raised his hand, holding a small hunting knife, with a thin piece of wood pierced on it, the wood was wrapped into a leather strap.

Carefully Ronon took the piece of wood from the blade and studied it, it held nothing beside the strap and a short strand of hair. Some scratches that looked like they were random, adorned the piece of wood. But to Ronon they were much more, a message, short and to the point.

"Ronon? Do you know what this is?" Lorne looked up, his eyes narrowing.

Gently Ronon studied the strand of hair. It was short and dark, it belonged to a messy head he knew all too well. "It is a trace – a message – by someone who may know something about Col. Sheppard."

Lorne looked at him doubtfully. "A message by whom?"

Ronon hesitated, bit his lip, then shook his head. "I can't tell you. But he knows something – that much is sure."

Lorne stood up. "Let's get back to Atlantis, Mr. Woolsey will want to hear this."


	3. Chapter 3: SNAFU

**Chapter 3: SNAFU**

_Across the Earth are leading  
many a road and bend,  
yet all of them are speeding  
to the selfsame end. _

_Be you riding or driving  
as twosome or three,  
the last of your steps  
belongs but to thee. _

_For skill's not as valid,  
nor all that is known,  
then doing all the hard things  
_alone and on your own.

_(Herman Hesse – Alone)_

The mood in the conference room was tense and of Teyla's diplomatic efforts went to waste on the attempt to change that fact. Richard Woolsey had not been in a good mood ever since he returned from Earth and his evaluation. "And you actually claim that this -," he pointed to the carved piece of wood, the leather strap and the strand of hair, " is some sort of message?"

Ronon nodded. "Right. The man who sent it knows something about what happened to Col. Sheppard and he wants to meet us – or at least me – on the place he specified." It was an uncharacteristic long speech for Ronon. But contrary to what many people thought, he was very much capable of handling long sentences and there had been a time when he had been talking more lightly. Until he had learned to be silent, until words failed him, until there had been no one any more to whom he could have talked.

Woolsey again eyed the message rather critically. "Who is 'he' and where is this meeting supposed to be?" he inquired in the very same level, matter-of-fact tone.

Ronon glared at him, this was not going well. And there was something else, something that had changed, Ronon could feel it, and he did not like it at all. "I already told you: I do not know his name and I can't tell you the gate address."

"So how can you expect us to be sure that this message is genuine?" Woolsey asked coolly. "Either you do truly not know, which means we can't trust the message, or you won't tell meaning you don't trust us."

The look Ronon shot him could easily have been a knife slicing Woolsey into slices, very thin slices. "I do not know the name of the man," Ronon repeated, trying very hard to be patient. He had some guesses who the man might be, Lorne's description had narrowed down the options considerably, yet this was nothing he could explain here. "but I know what he is. That's why I trust this message, and that's all I can tell you."

Woolsey let the words slide at least for the moment. "You say you won't dial the respective gate address from Atlantis. Why?"

"Yeah, I need a normal DHD – a round one – to even remember the right sequence." Ronon growled. "and I won't have it saved on one of your computers."

"You won't verify the source of this 'information', you are not willing to share the information where this meeting will be held, and you completely forget to mention how you come by all this knowledge in the first place – but you expect us to act on this so-called information." Woolsey summed up the meeting so far. "Incidentally we are talking about the self-same 'source' that might be responsible for another piece of 'information', about the so-called 'Wraith Lords' wakening from their long slumber, a story that sounds like a fairy tale."

If Ronon managed to keep his temper from flaring up, than only because it wouldn't help John if he flew into a rage now. He had to try and be reasonable, but it became harder with every passing minute. "Let's just keep these two things separate, will you?" he asked. "The High Wraith a very much real…"

"How can I keep those things apart, when the source of the information is the very same? One that apparently only you know more about?" Woolsey interrupted him dryly.

Ronon scowled. "A long time ago I gave my word, my word of honour, that I would never reveal this information, not under torture, not under threat, not in dying, not in desperation and not to save the person I love most."

"I see." Woolsey's gaze met Ronon's and it was none too friendly. "Perhaps you should take the time and think long and hard about your loyalties," he observed. "Meanwhile, I can't risk the lives of our people on such a vague note."

"That won't be necessary." Ronon rose. "I'm going alone."

"I'm afraid this is not acceptable, Ronon." Woolsey's gaze now became harder. "No member of the Atlantis expedition will risk his or her life on information so dubious as this, even if said member believes the intel for genuine."

"Fine." Ronon shrugged. "then don't. I'm leaving Atlantis, permanently and go on the search on my own."

Woolsey's sigh sounded almost heartfelt. "I was afraid you would say that. At this time it is impossible."

"You think you can forbid me to leave?" Ronon's voice was dangerously low.

"I have to." Woolsey straightened up. "Because of your time here you gathered quite a lot of information about Atlantis, Humanity and Earth. I will have to determine how it can be insured, that this knowledge does not lead to any damage to Earth or mankind, before you can be allowed to leave. Until such a time you will be confined to your quarters."

***

John Sheppard had killed the last of the hunting group. The last one for now at least. The group had consisted of seven Wraith that had been pursuing him through the gate. Now the last of them was dead. For now he was safe.

The last three worlds had been a blur. He had never stayed long, kept on moving and thus actually managed to gain some ground. He knew it was not going to last, his pursuers would keep up with him and eventually find him again. But it had been enough to get two detours done. Each one leading to a fallback camp of Atlantis, to the hidden weapon's caches they had off-world. In each one he had left a message, a short message carved into some soft limestone. In some indeterminable time, weeks, perhaps even months, someone would check up on the caches and hopefully find the message and understand what had happened.

This world he had reached now had proven to be a blessing in disguise, despite the windy and rainy weather. Not only had he found an abundance of food, most if it edible plants of a wide variety, but he had also been able to use the long light days to trap the newest Wraith hunting party in the swampy delta of the river. Taking their possessions had brought up his arsenal of knives and other weapons considerably. He had refrained from taking a gun from the weapon's caches, it was too dependant on ammo. He rather took the Wraith pistols, when they ran out of power, he could always take another one from a dead Wraith.

Now he was on his way back to the gate. It was a hard trek along the rushing stream, but at least it provided all the water he could possibly want, a commodity he had learned to value. The river's water was clear and clean, another thing John had learned he liked. He had found water in ponds of all sizes in the woods, to find out that it often was far from clean and he had no means to purify it. Marching along the riverbanks John felt lighter than he had in days. It might take time until the messages were found, but once they were, Atlantis would know of his predicament. It was just a matter of time, the thought gave him strength and what was more – hope.

The dawn was already falling, the light friendly dawn of this world, when John reached the ford where he would cross the river. Ruins of a ling destroyed city graced both sides of the river, the bridge was long broken and lay in the rushing waters, it's stones effectively providing the basis of the ford. In the warm light of the evening, every single part of the ruins cast long shadows on the river, the wind was warm, rustling in the leavers around and the rain had finally stopped pouring down. John sped up his pace, he would be much safer once he was on the other side and had the cover of the trees there, whose long branches hang deep down, touching the water in some places.

It was no easy feat crossing the river on foot, using the ruined bridge as a kind of ford. The water was still knee deep at the most shallow places and rushing fast over the stones. On both sides of the ford the water was much deeper, John knew that and it rushed at a pace, that could only be explained by the perpetual rain. The river had probably risen in the last some days.

Carefully balancing on the stones, he made his way to the middle of the river. "You there – stop where you are!"

The shout made John nearly drop into the water. Not because somebody was there, but because the shout had been perfectly in modern English, not in any of the Ancient dialect spoken around the Pegasus galaxy. He looked up and saw two familiar figures on the other side. Sergeant Shelleau and Hawkins. What was their team doing here? Or had he by accident stumbled across a world on their mission list? John cursed inwardly, this was no good. He could see only two of them, the other two were either somewhere further uphill or guarding the gate. "Stay away!" he shouted back.

"Colonel Sheppard?" Sergeant Shelleau gave up on his secure position wading into the river. "Sir, careful, that current is dangerous."

"Sergeant, stay back! Don't come closer!" Sheppard checked how fast he could retreat. It was next to impossible, he was standing on a precarious position, stepping back would likely toss him into the rushing waters.

"Sir, calm down. We know this place already. Stay where you are, I'll help you across." Sergeant Shelleau made rapid progress towards John.

"Turn back! You can't come closer!" John shouted. "That's an order."

Shelleau shook his head. "Sir, calm down. Nothing is going to happen…" ,he took another step forward, intending to cross a particularly difficult part on the stones, when his body was engulfed in a bright flare, and his body was ripped apart by an explosion.

"It's a trap!" The shout was already accompanied by the hammering of three P-90's. John tried to duck, lost his balance and was tossed into the rushing waters. The running river drew him under, pushing him along faster than he could react, carrying him away from the ford at a rapid pace. The whirling waters tossed him here and there, currents pulled him under, he had to fight his way out of them, nearly drowning all too easily. Eventually tossed against something hard, it got all dark around him.

***

The guard was not even arching an eyebrow when he saw Major Lorne and Teyla approaching. If somebody was to talk sense into Ronon Dex it would fall to those two. Their attempts to talk sense into a certain Mr. Woolsey had shaken Atlantis command centre earlier this day. The sympathies of the marine standing guard at Ronon Dex's door were with the Major. "You want to speak to him, Sir?"

"If he is still up." Lorne replied. "does he give you any trouble?"

"That's the strange thing, Sir: that first week I would have believed he'd try to take us all on and run. He certainly behaved like he would, but ever sine – he has been calmer. Dr. Keller talked to him time and again, she also brought him some pen and paper."

Lorne gazed to Teyla, that sounded most peculiar. "Let us in," he ordered.

The room they entered looked chaotic, not that anything was broken or otherwise damaged. But Ronon was sitting on the ground, surrounded by a lot of looses papers, some covered with drawings, some filled with odd lines and patterns, there were also some on which he had written in odd looking letters. Laying the pencil aside he looked up. "Major Lorne, Teyla – what brings you here? Has Woolsey changed his mind?"

Lorne waited until the door was closed, than he sat down on an empty chair. "No, he hasn't, quite the contrary. The situation has taken a turn for worse."

Ronon looked up. "Worse, what has happened? Is John…?" ,he did not dare to say it aloud. He could not bring himself to speak aloud of the dread possibility that John Sheppard might be dead.

Lorne sighed. Explaining the matter to Rodney had been hard enough. "There has been an incident, Ronon. One of our teams came across John Sheppard on P391-50X, Sergeant Shelleau lost his life and the whole thing stinks of a set-up. I debriefed Hawkins, Riler and Mikaz myself and their account of the events sounds odd enough, but Woolsey's interpretation took the whole thing and blew it up to full conspiration theory."

Ronon growled. "Tell me the details."

Lorne did so, efficiently as possible he recounted the details of the fateful meeting at the river. "We do not know what caused the explosion, a mine is our best guess. Hawkins insists that Sheppard warned Shelleau not to go on, but neither Riler nor Mikaz are backing this claim." He stopped, shaking his head. "The thing is, Ronon – with Sheppard's past, he is the perfect scapegoat to place all the blame on, for everything that went bad in those last some months. All while he is conveniently absent and can't fight back."

"His past – you mean that story about his comrade back in that war on your homeworld?" Ronon asked. "In Afghanistan?" He had heard from Sheppard about it, the barest details and after that read all he could get about this conflict. A helpful hint from a British scientist had gotten him on to reading about the history of the conflict, too.

Lorne nodded. "Yeah, he came close to be court-martialed for this one. And even as he got off the hook – hell, you can't court-martial a man, who just single-handedly saved some of your allies' troops out of the shit, without looking very stupid – there were still many people who would see to it that Sheppard's career got nowhere. Had he not ended up here, he would have stayed in Antarctica for the rest of his natural life." It was hard for Lorne to discuss these details, the dirty scheming political details of his homeworld with Ronon, but the Satedan had to understand what they were dealing with. "Right now, the search is called off, and if John Sheppard is not declared dead, he will be declared most wanted before long."

"Can you get me out of the city?"

The question startled Lorne. "You want to flee?" he asked. Not that Ronon could not have made it out of this room and to anyplace in this city, except the gateroom perhaps.

"I want to go and search John Sheppard." Ronon replied. "But I need to get out of here at first."

Lorne thoughtfully studied Ronon. The man was all action, and he would do exactly as he had said, he would search for John Sheppard, even if Sheppard's own people gave up on him. The thought left Lorne ashamed, John Sheppard would deserve the same loyalty from every member of the Atlantis expedition. "I can get you out of the city, Ronon." ,he said eventually. "and I truly hope you succeed and find Sheppard. But Woolsey won't let you come back and communication with us will be complicated."

Teyla looked up. "That will not be a problem. Zycrán, a blacksmith who is friends with many of my people has moved his workshop and trade to Belkan. Whatever messages Ronon leaves there, will reach me. And I often go to Belkan on behalf of my people."

Lorne nodded, this might actually work. "I will insist on accompanying you, Teyla. For security reasons. I wish we could do more."

"Actually, you can." Ronon said. "The man who threw the dagger – left the message – you saw him. Can it be one of those three?" He took three pieces of paper, each one was a drawing, a portrait of a man. All three of them were incredibly detailed. Lorne suddenly understood what Ronon had done to occupy his time. When he saw the third drawing, he recognised the man at once. "This one, that's him. His hair was longer, and I think there was another scar, one that ran across his cheek."

Ronon closed his eyes. "Thank you, Major Lorne. It will help me to know whom I am looking for."

***

None of the marines of Lorne's team had asked about the odd long bundle below the puddlejumper's bench. They had not looked at it, asked no question and pretended to be deeply employed with studying the mission material about the planet they were flying to. They accepted Lorne's orders to go and scout the village without as much as blink and Lorne was grateful for that. They probably felt the same as him about Col. Sheppard, but he still was glad they supported him silently. Once they were gone he untied the bundle.

Ronon groaned. "I had expected some devious plan, but being checked out as excess luggage was hardly what I expected."

Lorne grinned. "Hopefully your absence will be noticed only much later, when it is too late for Woolsey to guess, who helped you to run."

"I hope so." Ronon took his weapons and very small amount of baggage, most if it just some equipment, up.

Lorne studied him silently. Where would Ronon go? Could he accomplish alone, what all Atlantis was unable to do? "Good luck, Ronon. If you need help, never hesitate to call on me."

A noncommittal nod acknowledged the offer. The Ronon turned away and vanished into the woods.

***

Some time during the night the pain had breached the walls of unconsciousness and brought John Sheppard back to the waking world. He was lying on the banks of the river, among some wood and half a tree-trunk the river had tossed on it's shore. His body ached, had there been a spot that was not in pain, John Sheppard would have probably been able to tell. But the pain he was in registered only vaguely with him, his waking mind replayed the events right before his fall into the river in vivid details. Shelleau, wading through the water, disregarding John's warnings, ripped apart by the explosion. Again and again John saw those short, mad moments that ended in the fatal explosion. Why had Shelleau not listened to him? Why had he not reacted fast, getting away before the critical distance was breached? Shelleau's death was on his hands, there was no doubt about that.

John tried to sit up, it was painful, breathing hurt more than just a little. But right now John welcomed the pain, it seemed like a fitting punishment for his negligence that had ultimately killed Shelleau. He should have broken off the moment he realised that he had run into Atlantis people. He should have jumped into the river before Shelleau came too close. He should have…. He should never have met them.

Forcing himself to get to his feet again, he found himself able to stand. A hot pain shot up in his chest, he coughed. A step, then another, a third one, slowly John made his way off the riverbank. He did not look back, in his mind still the pictures of Sergeant Shelleau ripped apart by an explosion, that John had caused. No more, he decided. No more trying to contact them, no more trying to get back to Atlantis, no more hoping for help. He would not have anyone else die on account of him. He was a Runner, and Runners stayed away from all people.

***

It was trading day on Belkan, the market was bustling with people, animals and carts. Laughter and shouts mixed with the bleating of animals and the voices of children. Major Lorne had no ears for the pleasant, peaceful cacophony around him. Sitting on the ground behind the blacksmith's cart with Teyla he stared at Ronon in utter disbelieve. "What do you mean: gone?"

"I was too late." Ronon replied gruffly. "The place was not save any more and he had already left. The whole place was crawling with Wraith."

Somehow Lorne was glad, that he would never have to report to Woolsey about that. "Wait… you say Wraith were there… the man who sent the message – he was a Runner?"

"Is a Runner." Ronon corrected him. "I'm sure he got away before the Wraith were realising what had happened."

Lorne sighed. "And there goes our chance to find out what happened to Sheppard."

Ronon shrugged. "I'll find him. It only will take more time."

"Ronon, how in the world will you find that Runner again? It is next to impossible to find one Runner on purpose and the odds of finding a specific Runner are even worse."

Ronon shrugged. "It will take time, it may take years. Jir was always a careful one and tracking him down will be tough."

"Jir? You know his name?" Lorne asked. He remembered the drawings Ronon had shown him. Had they all been Runners, Runners Ronon somehow knew off? "And is there any chance at all to find him again?"

Ronon did not reply for a while. "I know off him, mostly," he then said. "he's a runner with more years to his name, than most will ever claim. Give me some time."

Lorne shook his head. "Ronon, what you are proposing is next to impossible. Even if you manage to track down this Runner, and it could take years, what hopes are there, that his intel is even of use, at that time?"

Suddenly Lorne found his wrist in Ronon's steel hardened grip. The man stared at him, clear fury in his eyes. "I will find John Sheppard, Major Lorne. No matter how long it takes, no matter where I need to look, no matter what obstacles in the way – I WILL find him." He let go, rose and walked away.

Teyla gestured Lorne not to follow Ronon. "Give him a moment alone." ,she said.

Lorne nodded, it was probably wiser not to vex the Satedan even more. "I hope he can do it. Woolsey has declared Sheppard MIA and possibly dead yesterday."


	4. Chapter 4: A day here and a year there

**Chapter 4: A day here and a year there**

_Some people said he was a ghost,__  
__Wouldn't want to be his host,__  
__Or just to meet him.__  
__And if he ever came their way,__  
__Than it's sticks and stones, I'd say,__  
__That would greet him._

_(Boney M. - He was a Steppenwolf)_

Ronon had been tracking rumours and whispers for many months now, how many he did not care to count. His first solid lead had been a rumour he had heard from a trader on Belkan, who had heard it from a merchant peddling his wares on Oricas, who had been told about it by a traveller from Iskhan, which had only repeated what he had been told by a mercenary in a tavern on Rocarin, where the self-same story had been floating around weeks, and only the innkeeper seemed to remember the tall traveller form Janitsar who had started it. On Janitsar one of the freighter pilots recalled a nurse mentioning the same story after she returned from Zyphár, where she had been tending to the survivors of a particularly vicious culling.

Almost none of these intel had been given freely or willingly. Ronon had stopped counting how many people had wanted some kind of service or other price for their knowledge. Once they saw him they remembered old grudges, revenges and debts never collected and decided that it was just the right moment to settle some unfinished business. As long as it was skull bashing, shooting, threatening and other rough work, Ronon delivered in a quality that usually loosened their tongues. He knew he was sinking to mercenary level rather fast, he was selling himself and his skills in a way he had never expected, but he didn't care. As long as he got the information he needed, the next link in that chase, the next piece to the puzzle, he would do their petty bidding. He had never started counting how many people he had cajoled into telling him all they knew. Had he not learned to survive on next to nothing, this hunt would have failed weeks ago.

At the time Ronon arrived on Zyphár, the trail had seemed cold. Many people had already left the planet, seeking their fortunes elsewhere, others did not want to remember anything that was connected with the time of the great culling. Ronon had earned more than his usual fare of glares and distrustful glances along with some new 'jobs'. The information he'd got out of those had been scarce. He had taken the last one – extracting some long overdue money from a trader – only because he could use the more substantial pay his contact promised. But to his surprise his contact had pointed him to a freighter pilot who transported traders and goods to some worlds without a gate. The old man was a drinker out of lifelong habit, but had recognised Ronon's Satedan accent at once. After some bottles of Tabreán ale and much painful reminiscences about Sateda the old man had stared at Ronon, grinning. "So, who are you after?" he had asked.

From his small backpack Ronon had extracted his perhaps most important asset on this search: a page with two drawings. One was a portrait of John Sheppard and the other of Jircanor. The latter he had drawn from memory, trying to get it as precise as possible. He knew it was dangerous to show the picture of a Runner to anyone, but he silently hoped that Jircanor would hear of this sooner or later an come after him. Ronon knew he was in for a rough time when Jircanor found him, but he was willing to take the risk.

The drunken pilot had frowned on the pictures. "I'll be…" he had taken another long gulp from his canteen. "I don't know this one –" he pointed on Jircanor's portait. "But this one –" his fingers hovered above the picture of John Sheppard. "This one – I met. Oh yeah – right in the middle of the Wraith attack on Anchoril, bad bad day that was. But he – well, he saved some people's lives when he cleared the way to the great ring."

A sudden warm feeling erupted inside Ronon. The attack on Anchoril had been only two months ago, if John Sheppard had been alive and kicking then, there was a good chance he was still alive. He had convinced the pilot to take him along to Anchoril, doing some skull-bashing for him on the way there. One of the survivors in the ruins of once beautiful Anchoril recalled John Sheppard too. "We owe him our very lives," she says. "Had he not fought his way to the gate, we would have never made it out. I don't know from where he came, but he had people on his trail. He left right after he knew we were safe." But she recalled the gate address John Sheppard had dialled.

All of sudden the focus of the hunt hunt shifted: up till know Ronon had hoped to either track down Jircanor, or vex the Runner into coming after him and tell him what he knew about John Sheppard's fate. But now he had found the trace of John himself, and with all energy he had, Ronon threw himself into this new hunt.

There was no time in John Sheppard's life he could recall being colder or hungrier. He was constantly on the move, never staying anywhere for longer than fleeting hours. Often not even that. He often had no idea where the next jump of the gate would bring him. After the disaster with Shelleau he never again used addresses he remembered from his time in Atlantis. The addresses he used these days he found either by watching others dialling the gate, or by sheer trial and error. It was not a good way to travel, but better than risking another run in with the people from Atlantis. He had come across worlds that worshipped the Wraith, worlds full of ruins and ancient technology and again across worlds that had not seen a living being in long years. Some of those had been hideouts that allowed him to hunt for food without fearing that he would bring the Wraith down on an unwitting population.

The longer he ran the more John learned about outsmarting and outrunning his opponents. He learned to trap them, to hunt them in the dark, to feel their presence long before they could smell him. He learned not to trust his eyes, but his ears, to fight in absolute darkness, to never sleep deeply, always ready to fight, ready to jump up at the slightest noise. For weeks he had been exhausted, sometimes nearly unable to run, but somehow his body had adapted to the constant abuse.

Anchoril came as the next great catastrophe. He had stepped through the gate and hidden away in the nearby mountains, intending to stay just long enough to hunt food. But behind him came a congregation of people through the gate. They camped there. For six weeks the gate had been blocked to him because once in ten years the natives went to a great assembly to again bless the ring of the Ancestors. Effectively trapping John. He had moved away from them, journeying through what went for a new spring on this world. Doom fell on a the first warm day of spring – a group of six hive ships arrived in orbit and the culling began. John had known the Wraith had been looking for him and he felt sick when he saw them descending on the population. When he saw the darts swooping down, he had for one moment hoped, they'd cull him too. The silent wish for death had only made way for an ever greater rage. He was fed up, fed up with being hunted, fed up with being a harbinger of doom no matter where he went, fed up with running: he had taken his weapons and fought back, carving a path through the Wraith ranks back to the gate. If the Wraith wanted to hunt him, they would find that the prey had grown some teeth.

Only in the aftermath of the fighting did John realise how many people had escaped from Anchoril because of him. He had gotten away from the survivors as fast as he could, before another Wraith attack could follow them. From that time on he avoided too populated worlds, drawing his hunters to lonesome and empty places where he would in turn hunt them down. In the dark he would sneak up on them, killing them, trapping them, luring them into deadly ambushes.

Not always did avoiding people prove easy. Even on thinly populated worlds John might chance upon people in the woods or in the mountains. Usually he heard them from far away and hid until they were gone. But sometimes it was simply impossible.

John dodged another blast of fire from his last pursuer. He had taken out the rest of the group, but this one was good. He had evaded the traps as well as the ambush John had tried earlier that day. Sliding downhill John did not try to slow his descent, it gave him a head start on the Wraith. On the ground of the valley ran a small footpath, perhaps it was what passed as a road for these parts. John raced on to cross the open ground fast and was already on his way up the next overgrown hill, when he heard a dull thump. Turning around he saw the Wraith on the ground, nailed down by a blade through his back. Only a few steps away stood a tall man beside a heavy cart. John had heard the cart being pulled by its two horses earlier, but he had hoped to lure the Wraith through here before the cart got close. Luckily the man had been able to take care of himself and handled the Wraith rather well. Right now he checked that the Wraith was truly dead.

A relived sigh escaped John. This time he had not been the harbinger of death, and it was only due to the skill of that blond guy down in the valley. "He's dead – you can come down." John understood the words perfectly well. He had picked up on the native tongues, most of them some deviation of Ancient, rather fast. On his constant run he had often been forced to hide and wait until people moved on, which allowed him to listen to the various dialects. He did not move. If he remained completely still, the man down there would hopefully presume that John had run on and would leave.

The man down there pulled the blade – it was a long sword – from the body and put it away with a flourish. "You can come down," he repeated. "Don't be afraid."

John sighed. Again he had run into some nice guy who wanted to help him. Why could he not just run into people who chased him away? It would make running sometimes easier. He crouched down, leaning against the tree. He just needed to wait. The man down there had his cart, which was heavily laden and had probably not much time to waste. He would go on if John just stayed hidden. Still it left a bitter feeling inside John. He had to stay away to protect this man from the Wraith that would come again soon enough, but it got harder and harder. John closed his eyes and forced himself to be completely still. He had been able to hide from Wraith this way more than once. The man did not call out a third time. John relaxed a little and listened for the cart to get moving again. Luckily the man was not as stubborn as he could be.

"I can't imagine that you are afraid of me, so I guess you are afraid of being found." The warm baritone voice only steps away from him, startled John. He had to check his reflexes not to throw a knife in the direction of the noise. Looking up he saw the blond man bend down some steps away, studying him intently. John saw a lean face, keen grey eyes that spoke of intelligence and awareness.

"Please – you need to go," he said. "You are in danger."

"You are a Sakrai – a Runner – I guess?" the man observed. "Come on, you are injured and could do with some help for a change." He rose and offered John a hand.

John struggled to his feet without accepting it. "You don't get it…"

"I do. You are a Runner, I know your kind. I know the Wraith. Now, come on!"

In a daze John allowed the stranger to lead him down to path and the cart. "They will come for you…" he managed to say as he was urged to sit down beside the cart.

"They are welcome to try," was the curt answer as the man got a bundle from his cart. "And now let me take a look at your injuries. They don't look good."

Slightly surprised John looked down on himself. To his mind he was no worse than he had been before this encounter, or the one before this one. "It's nothing," he replied.

A deep chuckle escaped the man, who began very efficiently to clean the shoulder wound. "That's what they all say, believe me. And now hold still."

John shook his head stubbornly. "I better get going."

"Damn it! I said stop fidgeting! This wound is bad enough as it is." The words were not a question, they were an order and John knew an order when he heard one. The blond man continued cleaning up the shoulder wound. The salve he spread on the wound cooled it somewhat and numbed the pain. After he was done, he continued with the other wounds. "I'm called Syrkan, and you?" he asked.

"John." Sheppard gave in and at last told him his name. "Thank you for the help."

Syrkan waved the word off. "Think nothing of it. You are not the first one of your kind I've met."

"Of my kind, you mean…?"

"Runners. How many are still behind you?" He looked uphill.

"None right now. This one was the last. But I need to get back to the gate – the ring of the ancestors," John found himself replying.

Syrkan nodded. "Good. I am on my way to the ring myself. You can come with me. It's a two day journey on the cart."

John shook his head. "I can't. I will bring them down on you if I stay. I have already stayed too long."

Suddenly Syrkan's hands gripped John's shoulders, it was painful, but forced John to look the other man straight into the eyes. "John, now listen to me – you can't bring the Wraith down on my family, my people or my planet – because they all are already dead. The Wraith took them long ago. And if they come after me – they are welcome to try. Don't worry about me. I live not in a settlement, and when I peddle around I never stay long myself."

The cart was rattling along the small road, the two horses made good speed. John still wondered how he had come by this ride. He was sitting right beside Syrkan, who held the reins of the horses in his right hand, leaving the left free for taking up the weapons should it become necessary. "So you are a peddler?" John asked eventually.

"They call it a blacksmith." Syrkan replied. "I make swords and knives and trade them around, for those who can use them I make guns and trade them too." He saw John's astonished face. "You wonder that I know how to make guns? My world was somewhat more advanced, than many other worlds out here."

"So how do you know how to forge swords?" John asked. "That's not something you learn along with engineering and modern sciences."

Syrkan chuckled. "Swordplay was a highly valued art among my people, we never forgot how to make our weapons. My hideout is on a ruined planet, where there is still enough tech around to use it for making very good swords and other weapons. Mix enough modern knowledge into the ancient world and you'll get a near unbeatable combination. "

"So you make weapons and trade them around on the worlds. Was there nowhere else to go?" Had he just found another last survivor of an entire civilisation? How many were there, lost, adrift without any place to call home or at least a safe haven?

"There were only few survivors of my world and most of them died, striking back at the Wraith. And those who did not, live much as I do – on their own, at some distance. We would never fit into their villages and small communities, we'd always struggle to fit in, or live as they do. So we just went and live on our own. Being alone means being strong."

"The lion fights alone, and so do I?" John asked. He knew this Lone Wolf mindset from Ronon well enough. And he had come to understand it during those last months.

Together they travelled to the gate. It was not an easy journey. John found himself unable to sleep with a stranger close by. Syrkan was not the least offended, he had expected nothing else. John's reflexes tended to kick in whenever startled. Syrkan was careful but found himself with John's dagger at his throat at least three times. He laughed it off, utterly unafraid. Eventually their journey ended, Syrkan stopped the cart in the woods. "The ring is ahead," he said. "I'll go first, should Wraith be there, you'll know soon enough. But I guess there will be just some traders bickering about who blocks the way through the ring for how long. Wait until it is dark and you should be fine."

"We could go together." John replied. After they had travelled together for two days it would make no difference if they reached the gate together.

Syrkan shook his head. "No, John. If I do not know where you went, I can't betray you. A secret I do not know can't be taken from me by any form of trick or torture." He turned around and took a heavy bundle from the cart. "There – you'll be needing this."

By the length of the bundle John could guess it was a sword, perhaps similar to the one Syrkan himself used. "I can't take this." He tried to refuse but Syrkan wasn't in the mood for a discussion.

"You can and you will. You'll need it. And I'll feel better about leaving you here like this if I know you have some decent weapons." Without waiting for any reply he drove his horses on. John saw the cart going past the next bent in the road then it was gone.

Slowly he opened the bundle. It contained a sword, a sharp, double-edged blade, an assortments of knives and a pistol. John almost dropped the whole bundle. He had seen such a pistol before, but never asked where it had come from.

***

The glances that followed Ronon down the road were moving from distrustful to outright aggressive the longer he was here. The people didn't like questions, they did not like Ronon roughing up two of their number and they clearly distrusted him. "You better go away and ask questions elsewhere," an elderly man advised him. "There is nothing you can learn here."

Ronon ignored him. He was not here to debate with them. Strolling down the lane he reached the end of the village. It did not take much to look around and he did not see the person he had expected sitting on a rock. If Lorne or Teyla had been here, all would have been well, but what was Zelenka doing here? "What has happened? Where are Lorne and Teyla?" he asked.

The Czech scientist look up. "Still your old charming self. It is good to see you again, Ronon," he replied. "Teyla… well her second child is due any day and she could hardly go off-world. Especially as Woolsey is somewhat jumpy these days. And Lorne…"

A cold fear gripped Ronon's soul. Had another comrade fallen to the Wraith? And the Wraith were winning the battles these days. With the High Wraith exerting a firm hand on at least half of the Wraith factions, the 'wild Wraith,' as they called them, the Wraith had become again a force to be reckoned with.

"Lorne was injured in fight," Zelenka said. "And Keller decided that he needed to be sent to Earth for full recovery." An odd smile shone in the eyes of the Czech scientist. "You see, Ronon, sometimes when one power above you becomes to oppressive, you need another equally oppressive force to relieve the weight at least a little."

Ronon understood only half of what Zelenka was saying. "Will Lorne be alright?" he asked.

Zelenka nodded. "Sure he will be, and he will inform some people of many things we have found out since you left. But do not worry about that – did you find out anything about Sheppard or this other Runner?"

Ronon sat down opposite the scientist. "John was seen some months ago on Anchoril, helping people during a culling, and he there is a rumour that he was on Tywara not eight weeks ago. I am on my way there."

Zelenka's eyes shone. "That's great news, Ronon. If you find him, let us know. But don't bring him back to Atlantis until we got some things sorted out."

Ronon frowned. "What ARE you doing, Zelenka?"

Now the Czech looked very serious. "Woolsey might believe himself to be the highest pusher for his masters, but he isn't almighty. And sometimes a little good old fashioned resistance is needed."

Ronon still did not understand, but if the scientists had formed some kind of conspiracy to remove or murder Woolsey it was fine by him. He had a trail to follow.


	5. Interlude: A foreign soldier came to me

**Interlude - ****A foreign soldier came to me**

„_... I will pray for you_

_I will tell you what to do,_

_I'll stone you. I shall break you every limb._

_Oh I am not afraid of you._

_But maybe I should fear the things you make me do._

_(James Fenton: Jerusalem)_

Jack O'Neill tended to be a little cranky when he did not know what was going on. Being a General usually meant that he was supposed to know. But being called out of a NATO conference in Brussels, being driven to the Airports and being ushered on board a British Airways long haul flight to Washington without as much as an explanation, fell clearly in the category of things to annoy him. Arriving in Washington he found himself picked up by a staff car and driven off. As there was no one he could snipe at, he kept a grim silence until they reached their destination.

When he entered the small briefing room Jack was well ready to demand his answers quite forcefully. But all the words that were on his mind slipped away, when he saw who was awaiting him. If George Hammond and Hank Landry had seen it necessary to pull the strings to get him back from Brussels, it could mean only one thing: there was something wrong OUT THERE, badly wrong or they would not have recalled him. "Which of our old buddies picked a whacked time to go to pull a stunt?" he asked.

"Good to see you too, Jack. Sit down." George Hammond pointed towards the chairs grouped around the small table.

Jack sat down, but shot the man, who was now advisor to the president an annoyed look. "So, why did you call me back from Brussels? It was kind of nice there…" He paused for a moment. "Except for all the conferences. "

"Be glad we didn't call on you a week ago, when the IOA conference as still in full swing," Hank Landry replied. "You would have liked the bickering and trading of favours behind the scenes."

"The IOA?" Jack's voice became guarded. Ever since the Stargate program had been revealed to the leaders of the other nations, the IOA had been a greater pain in the butt than Senator Kinsey could have ever hoped to become. "Is this because of the stunt Baal pulled? Or again because of the Alkesh in Greenland?" The latter was one of the least favourite events of the last year. An Alkesh landing in Greenland was one thing, but having to explain to a whole damned Nato contingent that was up for arctic training in Thule airbase had been a bitch. The IOA had been riding on this incident for weeks.

"None of that." Hammond explained. "Jack, this is about the Atlantis expedition."

Jack frowned. "So Woolsey became finally his ass handed back by the Wraith? Couldn't happen to a nicer man."

Hank Landry sat down opposite of Jack. "Something was off about the Atlantis expedition, this much we knew for about a year. But we suspected the trust was behind it and planted some people to find out more. The IOA insisted that Mr. Woolsey was doing a perfectly good job, and we had nothing to contradict this. Until… until Major Lorne was send back to the SGC to recover from wounds sustained in a battle against the Wraith." Landry stopped for a moment, before he went on. "Major Lorne, despite his bad shape, insisted on talking to either you or George here, the moment he was in the SGC and the gate had shut down."

Jack arched an eyebrow. "Why?" This did not sound good, it sounded like a big mess had just been exploded in their faces.

"I asked him the same when I arrived there." Hammond interjected. "What I heard and saw the next hours was unbelievable. "

"So Mr. Woolsey isn't doing as well as he pretends to?" Jack asked. He had seen enough of this man to know that appointing him to lead Atlantis had been a mistake.

"Things are far worse, Jack," Landry said.

Hammond nodded. "The situation of Atlantis is grave. The Wraith have attacked the city twice in the last year and caused considerable harm. A lot of our allies in Pegasus have been alienated by Woolsey for various reasons and it seems that through Woolsey a certain faction of the NID has wielded considerable influence for the last fifteen months."

Jack sat up straight. The NID had caused them troubles before, especially some of the groups inside it. He had seen his share of problems with them before. "Lorne claimed that Woolsey is back with his buddies at the NID?"

"He does not claim, he had proof." Landry said gravely. "He and a Dr. Zelenka have been building a file on Woolsey's activities ever since he declared John Sheppard MIA and presumed dead in spite of evidence to the contrary. Rodney McKay is the one who found the hard evidence but he failed in transmitting it to Earth and had to flee Atlantis."

"In his reports Woolsey claimed that McKay never overcame his addiction to the Wraith Enzyme and went renegade." Hammond went on. "Lorne told us that McKay is safe, hidden away with some of their allies and delivered a recorded statement from him. It was Zelenka who managed to lay his hands on the evidence McKay had found, before it could be destroyed. Zelenka was promoted to McKay's position and thus managed to garner a lot of information. "

Jack had to try not to look shocked from Hammond to Landry and back. "Have things really gone this far?" It had been a while since he had heard such a story. But if Lorne, who was as level-headed and rational as they came, chose this way of delivering the information they had, and was not willing to trust anyone, then things had gone from bad to worse, much worse. "And what was this about Sheppard?" Jack had persuaded the Major to go with the Atlantis expedition in the first place, when the younger man had been flying choppers from McMurdo to the Ancient outpost in Antarctica.

"It's one of the situations Woolsey mishandled badly." Landry said grimly, pushing a folder towards Jack.

Jack usually made a show of his dislike for all kinds of paperwork, but not right now. He read through the report swiftly and efficiently. Had anyone else handed him this report, he would not have believed that this was genuine. "They just left him out there?" he asked. "This button pusher just sat back and left one of our men behind?"

Landry's mien was still grim. "Yes. From what Lorne said, there was a sighting of John Sheppard alive several months back."

"Months?" Jack's voice grew involuntarily louder. "First they leave him out there, with whatever the enemy did to him, and then… " he stopped and shook his head. "We need to bring him home, him and everybody else that may be on the run from our very own tyrant right now."

"The IOA was as appalled as you are, Jack, when they saw the hard evidence." Hammond replied.

"They were probably more appalled by the negative effect that his case had on diplomatic relations out in Pegasus," Landry corrected. "Carrying the Ancient gene in a significant proportion makes him something of a direct descendant of the Ancients. And John Sheppard acquired quite a hero's reputation, too. More than one nation stopped relations and trading with Atlantis, thus also stopping some vital substances and materials from being available to us. That's what shocked the IOA."

Jack critically eyed the pile of folders still resting on the table. "I guess this are all the other messes Woolsey made?"

"Most of them, the big fish, the small stuff was omitted." Hammond selected a rather thick one from the pile and handed it to Jack. "And this is our other big problem."

Jack took a short look at the folder. "The Wraith, those bastards could not roll over and stay dead, couldn't they?"

"For the past fifteen months Mr. Woolsey has insisted that the so-called "High Wraith" are just a myth, invented by the frightened population of Pegasus. During these fifteen months the 'High Wraith' have established their rule over about 50% of the Wraith population and are again a force to be reckoned with. Atlantis was attacked twice, and while ultimately able to fend them off, the damage and losses were grievous. This –" he pointed towards a photograph, "…is the man who led the second attack, and came within a hair of conquering Atlantis."

Jack O'Neill studied the picture silently. "He doesn't look like them. Is meagre, grey and looking like a walking corpse out of fashion with them nowadays?" The picture he saw looked frighteningly human, a little reminiscent of the Wraith turned human by the retrovirus, but with an eerie, dangerous quality that had been lacking in them. The man in the picture was tall, clad in a dark armor. Flowing white hair falling over his shoulders marked him as the Wraith that he was, but his face had nothing of the usual wraith contortions.

"These `High Wraith' are different form their other brethren. Unfortunately Mr. Woolsey has prevented any study of them, so we have more educated guesses than facts about them. But Major Lorne insisted that this one was able to use Ancient technology."

"Now, that's what I call bad news." Jack replied dryly. "So what did the IOA decide about the mess they made?"

Landry and Hammond exchanged a significant look, then Hammond spoke: "After long deliberations and negotiations the IOA agreed to place command of Atlantis back in the hands of the military AND have this command with a more long-term timeframe. Many of the IOA members felt that our influence on the military aspect of the expedition was already too great, but eventually they agreed that we still had the best candidate for the job. Someone who too is of Ancient descent and can help repair our standing with the various nations out there, someone who has already proven able to handle overwhelming threats and who is seen capable to again restore trust into the leadership of Atlantis."

"And who would this wonder-boy be?" Jack asked in good humour, the man had his work cut out for himself, that much was sure.

A wry smile lit up on Hammond's face. "Congratulations, Jack. You will be the next commander of the Atlantis expedition."

"There we have a true rarity: Jack O'Neill in stunned silence." Hank Landry's humour made Jack grin. He didn't reply to this one, but turned to Hammond. "How did you get the IOA to agree to this? I was never good with them, and they know what I think of their rules, regulations and directives."

"The IOA agreed that there is no better man for the job, Jack. But…"

"Ha! You said but!" Jack interjected. "If they send me Woolsey as chief of administration, can I give him to the Wraith as a peace offering?"

"No, Jack."

"Too bad."

"The IOA had another condition on your appointment, Jack. And one that was heavily debated," Hammond went on. He had been there and seen the debate going back and forth for the better part of a week. "As I already said: it is strongly felt among the IOA that the US influence on the military part of the Atlantis expedition is rather strong, as the bulk of the forces in Atlantis is American."

Jack snorted. "Most of the important member nations have some troopers there too, you know that."

"It is not about having troops there, Jack. The IOA has made it a condition that your second in command, the man who will fill in for Col. Sheppard, has to be a soldier not from the US. In case Col. Sheppard is dead or unable to resume his duties in the long run, this man will take Sheppard's place." Hammond took a deep breath. "The only thing I could them to agree to is, that they leave the actual choice with us. They won't appoint anyone, but they reserve the right to appoint someone, should they find us violating this directive."

"So it is still my choice of staff." Jack summed the whole sermon up. "Well, tell them it's ok, and they can stop bickering. I mean – don't tell them to stop bickering for real – but that their condition will be met."

Hammond was slightly astonished. "It won't be easy, Jack. We cannot bring this person in on the whole thing, before he has signed up for it. And requesting the files of possible candidates – even if we take only NATO members into account – will be a mile of paperwork."

"Cut it out." Jack replied. "Don't request anything, don't ask for one stupid folder to gather dust in the basement of the SGC."

"Jack, there is no way around the stipulation…"

"Yeah! I got that. I already know my prime candidate. The bitch is: I have to fly back to Europe and talk him into it."

Landry grinned about Hammond's confusion. George should know Jack well enough, to guess that Jack would come up with a candidate faster than the IOA could sign a form. "So you already have an idea?"

Jack nodded. "The man was in on the whole mess with the Alkesh in Greenland, kept on asking impertinent questions, when the cover story proved thin." Jack grinned. "He was the one who snuck up on the Baal clone and cut his throat. The downside will be explaining to General Major Heinrich von Aue why I want to steal one of his officers, and he is good at boring holes in cover stories too."

"The one who took out the Baal clone in Greenland... " Hammond rifled through his memory. "That was Dietmar Schmiedeberg, wasn't it? Why him, Jack? I had a list of suggestions already prepared for you."

Jack leaned on his elbows, as he began speaking. "It's all about the message we want to send to Atlantis. They've had some rapid changes in command, the last one was disastrous and their most trusted officer is missing thanks to Woolsey's incompetence. If I just waltz in with someone to replace Sheppard in tow, I won't be very welcome there. So I need someone who will fill in for Sheppard, but be ready to step down once we have Sheppard back. Dietmar Schmiedeberg is only a captain. He was supposed to be promoted to major, but as the whole mess for which he was to be promoted never happened, it's still under wraps. So his rank will serve to make clear that he's just filling in, a temporary solution. Secondly, John Sheppard is alone, cut off from his troops, hiding out in the wild, he's got some pretty nasty experience in Afghanistan when it comes to that. So I need someone who can get into that mindset, who can think like he does. Schmiedberg was in Afghanistan and he was in on Operation Anaconda. And lastly – he was calm when confronted with the Baal clone in Greenland and handled himself well."

***

Jack would have liked to have these talks on Rhine-Main airbase. This was a place he knew well, he had been there often enough during his career. He would also have been with KSK headquarters in Calw. But Major General von Aue had asked him to come here, to Potsdam. It was a city Jack had seen in times and under circumstances he could not repeat to anyone and he felt slightly uneasy here. "Your request is highly irregular, General O'Neill. I would not have considered it, had I had not two calls this morning: one from the ministry of defence and one from _Combined Joint Forces Special Operations staff_in Brussels, both urging and ordering me to comply with your request." Major General Heinrich von Aue eyed Jack suspiciously. "And I do not like asking one of my men to agree to a joint forces mission of indeterminable length and unknown destination. "

"This will only happen if _Hauptmann _Schmiedeberg volunteers for this assignment." Jack replied politely. Daniel would have been astonished to find out that Jack was quite fluent in German, Jack thought. "Or is his promotion official by now?"

The Major General shrugged. "No, it is not likely to be official for quite some time. But then, there are many things not official here." They walked into a briefing room that had been painstakingly prepared to serve as kind of impromptu conference room. The Major General closed the door behind them. "To make myself clear, General O'Neill: I will sit in on the whole interview, and if this gets too fishy…"

Jack nodded. He respected von Aue's wish to protect his men, he would have done the same, perhaps less overbearingly so. "Of course. Just as it is understood – the decision is with Dietmar Schmiedeberg, and with him alone."

"Abundantly clear." They both sat down and on a call from von Aue the door opened again and his adjutant let Captain Schmiedeberg in. He had not changed much from the last time Jack had seen him in Greenland. His salute did not betray whether he was startled or not. Von Aue waved it off and gestured the man to sit down. "Before we begin, I want to make some things clear, Dietmar. General O'Neill is here with a proposition for you to join a joint forces venture. While it is legit on all levels, it is highly irregular and volunteers only. The decision is yours."

Dietmar Schmiedeberg accepted those words silently, before turning his gaze to O'Neill. "Pleasure to meet you again, General. Has another test-ship crashed in Greenland?"

O'Neill would have preferred talking to Schmiedeberg alone, where he might have been able to say a little more than he was actually allowed to. "No, but it has to do with that ship. The mission is starting where this ship came from." It was not exactly true, but might give the man a clue. He had asked some quite unnerving questions during the incident in Greenland. "The mission is long-term and I won't deny that it goes into a warzone. Your predecessor went MIA and it falls to us to get him back home."

Major General von Aue frowned. "So you need someone to step in for one of your people, and to help extracting him out of enemy hand's – but when the mission is accomplished? "

"That still has to be determined based on the mission's needs." Jack tried to be diplomatic. He had his own ideas for all this, but it would be easier to pull off when they were all in Atlantis and far away from the bureaucracy of Earth.

"Meaning Dietmar is to risk his neck to get your man out of his own SNAFU and then kicked out again? How did your man get into trouble in the first place?"

Jack sighed. He had forgotten the cynical qualities of Major General von Aue, when it came to protecting his men. "Col. Sheppard did not get in trouble on his own account." He said. "And I would really appreciate when you let me finish one or two sentences, now and then. Just now and then."

Schmiedeberg' s straight pose had changed to vividly attentive. "Did you say Col. Sheppard? John Sheppard? Is he the one who is MIA?"

Jack nodded. "Right. I can't tell you any more, than that he is MIA and that we have good reason to assume he is still alive." Jack wished he could tell the man more, but not with the Major General in the same room.

Dietmar nodded curtly. "Good, count me in. General von Aue mentioned beforehand that you need me to sign some non-disclosure agreement."

Jack had not expected a decision so fast. "I have the papers here. It is a little more than the usual stuff, but the mission is pretty special."

"Dietmar, are you one hundred percent sure about this? You know next to nothing about this mission, or what war you are getting yourself into. This all is…"

"Highly irregular, I know, General." Dietmar's voice was calm. "But my decision is made."

"This John Sheppard, is he the one who…?" The Major General did not need to finish the question, Dietmar nodded.

"…the one from Afghanistan. This he is."


	6. Chapter 6: He disappeared in the winter

**6. He disappeared in the death of winter**

_I'm a man on the run,_

_And a man on the run,_

_Is a dangerous one…_

_(John Agard: Listen Mr. Oxford don)_

John Sheppard pushed a stubborn, frozen strand of hair out of his eyes and looked up to the dark grey skies overhead. For days there had been only heavy clouds trailing along in the perpetual icy wind. Snowflakes were falling down, dancing in the gale like a white veil. Involuntarily John began rubbing his hands against his arms. The cold wasn't getting to John's bones, it had already gotten there days ago. Winter had come had and fast to this desolate world. His eyes narrowing he stared ahead, trying to discern the bath before him from the white whirling snow. But it was hard. The whole landscape around him had become a white field, spotted with some dark shapes of rocks and trees under a deep grey sky, that poured down an endless flood of snow.

During the last five days, while he was making his way back to the gate, John had seen the land vanish beneath a thick white blanket. If he had not lost his sense of direction the gate should be right ahead of him, in nor more than three or four hours distance. He could only pray that the Wraith would not show up for another hunt. He was already tired from the wild chase of the last days, the frozen land had held next to no edible plantlife and there had been no animals around either.

Trudging along in the snow, he recognised the tall rockformation he had seen not far from the gate, when he had raced away from it, the Wraith in hot pursuit. The last part of his march would be the most dangerous. There were no woods any more to lend him some cover. The gate was situated right on a plain of stone and rocks, offering no shelter and scarce cover. When he arrived John had nearly perished on the red and grey stone grounds of the plain.

Now the whole plain was covered thick with snow, only here and there was a rock looking out under the frozen blanket. John approached this territory very careful. Some of the rocks provided a meagre cover to hide behind, allowing him to observe the open areas ahead before actually crossing them. Thus he managed to get on, if slowly. Sometimes he could hide only in the snow until he was sure that the path was clear.

A cold feeling, that had nothing to do with the fell winter around him, welled up inside him, like a cold that never would go away. It got stronger and stronger the closer her came to the gate. He knew this to be a warning, he had felt it before. There were Wraith close by. Lurking somewhere, waiting or hunting, he didn't know. But they would guard the gate, that much was sure.

John ducked low and crept on. If those Wraith were not hunting, but here on some other odd mission from their hive, they might not have too close an eye on the gate. For a while things went well, John snuck past a Wraith patrol and found cover behind a mushroom shaped rock. The gate was straight ahead, but it was heavily guarded. The Wraith were clearly expecting someone. John froze in place, when one of them checked his scanner. They would know he was there this instant. But then the Wraith pointed in another direction! From beneath the snow a man jumped up, sword in his hands, beheading the first wraith, stabbing a second one. John jumped up too, his shots killed three Wraith before they could get close. Then they reached him.

The fight was a blurr, there were more Wraith than John would usually have taken on, but somehow he managed to hold out, killing them one after the other. The second man had fought his way to the DHD and killed the Wraith guarding it, and dialled out. One of John's opponents spun around throwing a long dagger. John kicked the Wraith into stumbling, but the blade was already thrown, and the aim was true: it hit the man at the DHD into the back. He collapsed, breaking to his knee, somehow marshalling his last strength, he reached up and with his dying breath activated the dialling sequence.

Even in the middle of the madness of the fight, John understood: the other man might not have been able to save himself, but he had opened a way to escape John might use John dodged another attack, his blade cutting through the body of yet another Wraith. The fight became a blur of hacking, stabbing, slashing, spinning and attacking, a murderous dance that John could not stop or slow down. Again he spun, always fast, always attacking and always deadly.

It seemed to take ages for the dialling to finish. Was it only him, or did the dialling take longer than usual? He did not know, speeding up the fight, he pushed through to the gate, reaching it just in time when the dialling sequence eventually finished. It had taken too long, John was sure about that. But he had no choice, another troop of twenty Wraith emerged from a dart-beam. John jumped into the open gate, entrusting himself to the wormhole.

It was only his runner reflexes that saved John's life the moment he fell out of the gate. Instinctively he had let himself fall down, rolling away from the gate. The Wraith that had obviously managed to jump after him, wasn't so lucky. He stood right in front of the gate when the wormhole collapsed. John only saw a shadow from above swooping down, claws gripping the Wraith, ripping him up from the ground. John crouched down, it was dark here, he stayed hidden. Great Wings swooped up again and from above, carried farther and farther away John heard the screams and howls of the Wraith.

He stayed down, just looked up, to take in his surroundings. He was lying behind a pile of rubble, left of the gate. They were on the outside, a warm wind was whispering through the darkness. Under the light, shed by a small blueish moon, John could see ruins around him, and a ravine falling down not far away. When his eyes searched the skies he saw only unknown constellations and… there were shadows moving high up in the dark skies. Winged shadows hardly visible, in the darkness. All of sudden John felt like he was followed by watchful eyes.

***

Ronon knew a setup when he saw one. And this trader had been far too afraid, when he delivered his hastily spun tale. Shaking and stuttering all the time he managed to amuse Ronon quite well. That's why Ronon went to check out who was so stupid to set him up. He had to return to the gate anyway. His other informant here, an grouchy old man who was kind of a huntsman, had told him he had seen John no ten days ago and seen the address John had dialled when getting out of here, the Wraith chasing behind him. Not, that the old man had parted with this information out of the goodness of his heart. But after Ronon had taken care of some unwanted son-in-law, the old man had gladly told him all he knew.

Ronon grinned when he walked back to gate. Beating up whoever had hired this trader and then he'd go and find John. This was a good day, the best in a long time. In front of the DHD Ronon found a man – another local if his clothes were any indication – tied up and gagged. He bent down and relieved the man of his gag. "And who spun you in like this?"

The man's eyes bulged, panicking he stared at something behind Ronon's shoulder. Ronon spun around, usually nobody managed to sneak up on him. But there – only a few steps away stood a man, pointing a gun right a Ronon. Only a little shorter than Ronon, long black hair and straight, proud bearing that still betrayed his proud past. "Jircanor!" Ronon couldn't help but grin. He knew Jircanor would probably angry, because of the picture, but he was ready to deal with it.

"Ronon Dex." Jircanor's voice was cool as a glacier on his long lost homeworld. "A group of walkers told me of a man who was looking for me, who showed them a drawing of me."

"How do you know it was me?"

"A man seven feet tall, with wild auburn hair, he had the reflexes of a runner and yes, the worst table manners they ever encountered.'" Jircanor quoted, but he did not manage to keep the cool stare. His lips twitched. "It's good to see you again, Ronon." He said putting the gun away.

"It's great to see you are still alive." Ronon's hug could easily have broken some bones of Jircanor, had Ronon not been careful.

Jircanor freed himself after a moment. His hands still on Ronon's shoulders. "You are moving fast these days, I tracked you across a dozen worlds."

"I searched for you, because of the message, for a while." Ronon explained. "I failed to meet you."

Jircanor cut the bound man loose, he ran a s fast as he could, and both men sat down on the roots of a gigantic tree that shadowed the gate. "I waited as long as I could, for you to show up." Jircanor explained. "But in the end I assumed, that the Lanteans are like all other nations and don't take Runners back."

Ronon frowned. "They took me in, Jir. And what has this to do with John?" A painful suspicion suddenly rose in Ronon. Should the Wraith have bestowed the same dread fate, he once had haced, on John?

"You didn't know?" Jircanor asked. "They made him a Runner. And from what I heard, he is handling himself well. He'll be a legend, like you, in a year or two."

"A Runner…" Something in Ronon reeled against the idea that John had been running all this long last year. He vividly remembered his first year as a runner. The madness, the fighting, the exhaustion, the never ending hunt and… the terrible loneliness. Before Cayelan picked him up, Ronon had feared he'd go mad sooner or later, become some kind of wild animal, only killing and hunting.

Jircanor could read much of Ronon's thoughts on his face. The grief and pain that had nearly driven Ronon mad, had been with him a long time. "Tyvar tried to cross roads with John." He said comfortingly. "He will get better along with a Lantean, than I do and he'll teach John what he can."

Ronon shook his head. "Won't be necessary. I know the world where John went, and when it comes to introducing to our secrets, I can do that myself."

Jircanor arched an eyebrow. "You?"

"I was a runner, I can be one again, if need be." Ronon said firmly, rising to his feet. "If you want to help me, come along and decipher the next address, in case John already went to the next planet."

Jircanor rose too. "I don't doubt your abilities, Ronon. You were the strongest runner, except for Cayelan perhaps. But why? You managed what most of us never will manage: you stopped running. You did what, Ezár, Tiskan and Lycor still hope to do, and what men like Cayelan, Shakar and me only can dream of doing. You did it, you found another home. Why will you start running again? If it is important for you, I'll look out for your friend myself. He is doing well and will be a Runner, they tell about in many years to come."

Ronon could hear the silent desperation in Jircanor's voice. Jir had no chance to stop running, his first transmitter had been in his arm, and he had cut it out himself, as he had with the second, in the shoulder. But the third one the Wraith had implanted in him, sat directly inside his spinal cord. Removing it would kill Jir. "I would never have made it, had John not saved me." He said. "He was the one, who offered me to remove the transmitter, who brought me to Atlantis. He insisted that I stay, he got the others to trust me, to give me that chance. Without him…" Ronon shook his head, unable to speak on. "Wherever he goes, I go. End of story."

"Never look an Ancient one in the eyes, you'll loose your soul to him." Jircanor whispered an old saying of his people. Louder he said. "Well then, Ronon: let's get moving."

Ronon dialled the address, the old man had given him. Jircanor was guarding his back. It felt good to meet Jircanor again. There were no hidden snags here, as it had been with the Satedans, not traps, no demands on his loyalty. Sometimes Running made things easier. Together they moved up to the gate, falling easily back into the back to back formation, when they stepped through the gate.

***

Night onboard the Daedalus. Col. Caldwell didn't need to look into the small briefing room, to know that the german Captain was still up and working. He could hear the low tunes of music, form the laptops speakers. After General O'Neill had made some slightly unnerved comment about all too much Mussorsgy and Borodin, Schmiedberg had switched to some Cossak marches, while he was reading through yet another set of files. Silently Caldwell studied the young man, who was absolutely absorbed with his work. He could only imagine the political machinations, which brought the young man here. He probably had no idea what a mess he was stepping in, or what kind of lacklustre organisation had been commonplace on Atlantis.

"Colonel Caldwell, I didn't hear you coming, Sir." Dietmar Schmiedeberg looked up from his work.

Caldwell entered the room, instead hovering in the doorway any longer and closed the door behind him. "You have been working until late every night since we started." ,he observed. "Even the IOA could not pile up so many files at once."

"To be quite honest, Sir: The most of this is background reading, old mission reports, background files, other reports of the last six years of the Expedition." He gestured to the screen, filled with a huge text. "Bringing myself up to par with all the things that I need to know before reaching Atlantis."

Caldwell took a chair and sat down himself. He was still somewhat sore, that he had not even been considered for the job. A second failure in that department. But he did not blame Schmiedeberg for this. The young man had been dragged into this. From what Caldwell had understood, and easily guessed, Schmiedeberg had just been introduced to the whole SG secret. "This must be a confusing read." ,he pointed to the laptop. "But it will hardly cover the mess, this command has been the last some years."

Schmiedberg's gaze fixed on Caldwell. His grey eyes were somewhat startling, cold and of a kind that usually belonged behind a sniper scope. "It is, Sir. And more than once the different reports are contradicting each other. Be it the Siege reports, the reports about Lt. Ford or the reports on the Replicator topic."

"I can imagine that." Caldwell replied. "and there was much that was left out of all reports, to make them not more contradicting as they already were. It comes with writing reports that will be read by politicians. But I won't hassle you with more details."

"Sir, If it is not too much of bother to you – you were there, your opinion would be very enlightening."

Caldwell nodded. "To understand the situation, it is necessary to go back to Col. Sumner's unfortunate demise. He was shot on the first mission by his second in command, John Sheppard." Caldwell launched into the tale, detailing the events from the moment the Daedalus had arrived to assist Atlantis during the siege. The fact, that the younger Officer listened very attentively, sometimes made notes, and now and then asked a polite question, encouraged him to detail his view on the Atlantis command, the various leaders of Atlantis and Col. Sheppard meticulously. It was already morning, when he came to the changes he had implemented during his short stint in command of Atlantis, while John Sheppard had been infected by the retrovirus. Dietmar Schmiedeberg took more detailed notes, being clearly interested and Caldwell went on to the changes he had planned, but never gotten the chance to implement. It seemed there were still young officers who valued experience and were willing to learn.

The longwinded corridors of the Daedalus were an ideal running ground, but to get to Dietmar's full daily running distance he had to cross the ship more than one time. It was the day after his long talk to Caldwell and he had started with his usual training. When he reached the long corridor close to the outer hull, he saw Caldwell standing at one of the small windows. The Colonel gestured him to slow down. Dietmar reduced his running speed and came to a halt.

Caldwell scrutinized him. "You came through here four times, how many miles are that?" he asked, not too unfriendly.

"Twenty kilometres, Sir." Dietmar replied, his breath was still flying, but it got regular again fast.

"Twenty? I thought fifteen were usual KSK fare?"

"Sir, running seems to be the usual state of affairs in Pegasus, so I decided to keep up." Dietmar replied, his personal reasons to drive himself well beyond his personal limits, were nothing the Colonel needed to know.

Caldwell took that answer with a wry smile. "A wise decision, nevertheless." He looked around, checking the grounds. "I am not here to chatter idly, Captain Schmiedeberg." He said then. "I believe the IOA did you know favour appointing you to this post. And I dislike good people being used as potential scapegoats by some politicians who could have known better."

Schmiedeberg straightened. "Thank you, Col. Caldwell. I appreciate that, Sir. You expect more messes than we already know about, Sir?"

Caldwell nodded. "I guess you never worked with Col. Sheppard? He is a walking menace at times."

"We met in Afghanistan. I get the picture."

Caldwell listened up. "So you know what you are walking into?"

"Sir, let's just say I have a very good idea."

***

When the nothingness of the gatetravel erupted into the physical world again, Ronon De stumbled over a dead Wraith. He fell, rolled over and came back to his feet. Over a dozen dead Wraith littered the steps in front of the gate, and there were more of them. Their blood colouring the snow. Raising his gun he checked the area, but there was no one alive except them. "this must be over twenty dead Wraith." He said in awe.

"I told you, when it comes to the head count, your friend is giving you a run for your money." Jircanor replied. "he is a warrior born." Jircanor carefully stepped down to the DHD, stepping over the various corpses of Wraith. Kneeling down beside the fallen there, he sighed. "Oh no, this is Tyvar."

Ronon hurried over and bent down himself. Between the dead Wraith lay a man, whom Ronon had only known by reputation. He had died by a blade in the back, his hand still stretched for something, out of reach. He had gone down fighting. Jircanor gently closed the dead man's eyes. "Rest in silence, Tyvar of the Pacramár," he whispered. "beyond that eternal night you lived in, there is peace. Safe harbour, my friend."

Ronon knew the prayer for the dead, had heard it when they had buried what remained of Cayelan. "Rest in peace." He had heard these words from John, years ago, and in a way they symbolised all a Runner could hope for. "We need to find out the address, John fled to." He said after a moment of silence. Runners had never much time to mourn their lost ones. If you heard of a friend perished you spoke a prayer, if you still had a kind of faith, or you just wished him safe harbour, and went on.

Jircanor nodded silently and began removing the plating of the DHD. "This won't take long. We rigged this gate up for our purposes some years ago. Swiftly he shifted the position of some crystals, before connecting a small pad to the system. Ronon watched him silently. He had never learned how to do this. But then, except for Cayelan and Jircanor, there was only one more Runner who knew how to do this. "Wraithblood!" Jir cursed. "this last address must have been dialled by Tyvar."

Ronon took a look at the pad and froze. Instead of the usual seven symbols he saw an address that had four additional signs. He shuddered. "A dead world address. Do you know which one it is exactly?"

Jircanor scowled. "Yeah, your favourite spot in the dark space. Tyvar must have hoped the whole Wraith contingent after him and under the claws of the Jhem."

Ronon bit his lip, he knew of which world Jircanor was speaking. In his nightmares he found himself sometimes back in that long destroyed colony deep in the dead space. And he had not been alone then, John – he had no idea where he had been stranded and he would be unable to dial out without knowing the correct code. "We need to get after him."

Jircanor already reconfigured the crystals. "Don't worry, Ronon. We'll get him out. He is tough and resourceful. He'll manage until we get there."

Silently Ronon began to dial the gate again. He could not speak, the fear he felt was not for himself, but for John, stranded in a place, Ronon hardly dared to remember.


	7. Chapter 7: Prowling the dark space

Chapter 7: Prowling the dark space

_The seas was roaring,_

_I remember well…_

_(Chris de Burgh: Waiting for the Hurricane)_

Another shadow descended down on him, John only barely managed to dodge, roll over the rough ground and shoot the creature. He would have survived as long without his gun, it enabled him to kill the winged predators that haunted this place. After finding the DHD not functioning, he had intended to use what remained of the night to climb down the ravine. The darkness would provide him with some kind of cover, while he dared the long dangerous climb down to the bottom of the ravine. Or so he had hoped. The long climb down the rocky surface had proven a nightmare of clawed attacks by winged shadows and all too near misses, while he had been in constant danger of slipping and falling down to crush on the rocks below.

Under normal circumstances he would not have risked it, he just would have left this inhospitable world. But with the DHD malfunctioning, or perhaps disabled, his slim hopes rested on finding the necessary means to fix it in the ruins of the settlement he had seen from above.

By the time he reached the had reached the bottom of the ravine had began wondering how long the night was going to last. It was still dark, and the skies above were littered with stars, foreign and strange constellations he had never seen before. The red and violet light of an anomaly close by littered the skies like a blood mark. John began wondering how far out he was this time.

Moving on was not an easy task. The bottom of the ravine was filled with rubble, loose rocks and parts of wreckage, that looked like ships perished here a long time ago. Finding cover often meant crossing open grounds, and John found that each moment without cover was deadly dangerous. Something was moving in the darkness, a shadow deeper and darker than the normal blackness around them. John's hand came up, another shot and yet another shadow fell down shrieking painfully. Pressed against the hard rock face John listened into the darkness. There were more of them, he could hear the soft swishing of their wings above. He whirled around shot them in rapid succession as they descended down into ravine. Still, one of their wings brushed him, leaving an icy cold feeling tickling in his arm, it felt cold, dark and tainted.

Slowly John crept on further down the ravine, towards the opening end of the rift, ready to shoot any time he heard the another soft swishing in the air, heralding another of these creatures close by. The ravine steadily fell down and in time it got easier to walk. There was less rubble and nearly no wreckage, broader rock grounds took their place, allowing him to walk more speedily. Yet, the constant attacks forced him to stay close the walls of the ravine, for cover and to protect him to be picked up from above, as had the Wraith right after arrival.

It got harder to hear the predators close by as he got closer to the open mouth of the ravine. Sometimes they came horrifyingly close, their wings touching John, before he managed to shoot them. The sick cold remained in his limbs for minutes sometimes. Ducked below a ledge John made his way past a pile of loose rock the end of the ravine could not be far. Waiting motionless, crouched beneath the ledge, he strained his ears, listening into the night, for the soft sound of their wings. But he could not hear them. It took a while until he realised that there was another sound, a steady sound that drowned out the swishes and whirling of the dark wings in the air. It was a sound John knew well and had come to associate with home during the past some years: down, below the mouth of the ravine the sea was roaring hollowly against the dark coast. A small smile lit up John's lean features. He had missed the eternal song of the dancing waves, crashing against the shore. Even here, on this infernal planet, it felt like a gift to hear it again.

Bereft of the best indicator he had for the presence of the predators John had to be very careful. Slowly but steadily he worked his way down to the very end of the ravine, where it opened up, it's rocky sides retreating left and right.

No new attacks came, it seemed that the predators were finally backing off. John breathed a relieved sigh, when he stepped out of the ravine's shadows. He could even see a little better.

Stopping on the last of the flat rocks, he peered ahead. Dawn had finally come to this place. Not a rosy or fiery dawn, like on other worlds, but the bleak, pale light of a far-away sun shimmering through the ragged clouds, gracing the sea with eerie pale lights. The sea, there really was a sea, down below him, crushing against the rocks, roaring in an eternal song, that no one, who learned to love it, would ever forget. A bay opened up down there, walled by the same rocky structures that had formed the ravine. And down there, between the rocks and the waves he saw the dismal remains of a settlement. Two or three grated towers rose from the waters, part of an older installation no doubt, now they were not really solid any more, but softly flailed with the dance of the waves. Most of the buildings he had seen, were on the opposite side of the bay. Only a single building was on John's side. It was built right against the rock in which he was standing and looked like a small installation shed of some sorts.

It took only one gaze to tell him that swimming was out of question. The sea would smash him on the rocks and there was no way to tell what kind of predators might lurk down in the water. Predators… the winged creatures had backed off when dawn came, and John began his way out of the ravine. But John had no idea how brief this respite might be. He had to make the best of the time he had.

Studying the area again, he saw a railing leading right from the building below to the first of the grated towers. These towers seemed to share similar connections, perhaps the remains of a walkway. Again John wondered what kind of industrial installation this had been. Broken and in shambles these remains might provide the way across he needed. Without hesitation John dropped down on the outer wall of the building below. It was semi-stable and he was able to walk up to the front side of the building. Looking up his eyes found the railing above him. He jumped hard, his hands found the round metal, and gripped it tightly. The metal was cold under his fingers and he felt traces of rust. Speedily he began to climb along towards the grated tower.

The wind shook him hard the farther he proceeded on his way. John concentrated all his efforts on moving as fast as possible and not getting thrown off into the crushing waves. Finally he reached the tower, his foot found hold on a sold looking metal bar. There actually were the remains of a walkway here. Swinging over he landed on the grate. It creaked and groaned but it supported his weight. There was no time for relief, the tower was shaking and moving with the dance of the waves, and so did the walkway right beneath John's feet. 'Uh, I haven't felt like this since Ronon introduced me to Belkaran ale.' John thought as he began to walk along the shaking walkway. Involuntarily his hands sought whatever hold the rest of flailing construction might offer. But there was not much, so he had to trust his sense of balance and hurry on. Determined not to give up John began to make his way across.

By the time he was able to let himself drop down from the railing again, even as it was just on the crumbling remains of a ledge, he was grateful to have solid ground beneath his feet again. He did not like to remember how many times he had feared the whole construction might fail and drop right into the ocean. At the moment he had no wish to contemplate his way back. In front of him rose a group of solid looking buildings. A little further up he saw a hole in the wall, it looked like a window that had been blasted open by a grenade. Climbing up to it was a minor effort, even as the wall of the building also showed signs of massive deterioration.

Inside he found himself on a broken stairwell leading up and down. John turned and followed it down to the base of the building. Down and down went the stairs, as John had guessed the lower parts of the building were in a more solid shape than those up. The stairs ended in a wider sort of room. It was dark in here, there were no windows at all, nor other openings in the wall he could see. Suddenly he heard it again: a swishing of shadows against the darkness, swirling black wings fluttering all around him. He drew his gun and fired at them, one went down, and another, but there more, many more, surrounding him, their wings engulfing him, the darkness swallowed him up and he knew no more.

***

General O'Neill knew he should not enjoy this so much, but he did and he had spent the last day on Daedalus to prepare that moment properly. But Dietmar and a full detail of marines materialising inside the command gallery of Atlantis, weapons levelling at startled Mr. Woolsey, was a sight to behold. Dietmar made good on his promise and delivered a cold-eye no-nonsense 'You will come with us, Citizen Woolsey,' that was actually rather disquieting. O'Neill strolled up the long stairwell, taking his time, leaving Woolsey to fluster and then to go completely quiet. "Mr. Woolsey!" Jack could not help himself, he sounded cheerful, it was a cheerful occasion after all. "The IOA has relieved you from command of the Atlantis expedition, effective immediately, from your seat on the committee and whatever other chairs you might have sat in. Upon your warmly expected return to Earth a full inquiry of your activities will hopefully bring you to… wherever you belong." To jail Jack wanted to say, but it would not come out right. He gestured the marines. "He is all yours." Jack knew he should not enjoy this so much, but he could not help it: it felt damned good.

***

Teyla was not sure what she should think or feel right now. She had not been there when Daedalus arrived and this new General made his entrance on Atlantis and relieved shell-shocked Mr. Woolsey from his command. Dr. Zelenka had described the scene to her in glorious detail. She understood that Dr. Zelenka was happy, he had risked a lot to help Rodney and Major Lorne. But Major Lorne had not returned from Earth and this new General had brought a replacement for John with him. John, that name made Teyla's heart clench painfully, while her eyes wandered to little Torren John, who was playing gleefully, unaware of his mother's worries.

Teyla had only remained in Atlantis, because Lorne had convinced her and needed her help. She could not have let another friend down. Dr. Zelenka's report about his meeting with Ronon had sounded optimistic, but still… it got harder and harder for Teyla to cling the slim hopes they had. Perhaps it was the lifelong habit ingrained in her: whom the Wraith took was lost forever, dead and mourned. Only thus life could go on, but her life had been on hold since the day that dart took John. If John was still alive, why had he not returned to Atlantis? Could he be still alive after all this time? He was capable and brave but… Yes, she could admit there was a but, but he had not been trained to survive from earliest childhood on like she had, like Ronon had, like all children were if they were to live long enough to see their twentieth naming day. There were days and long dark nights when Teyla found herself wondering when she would sing the mourning song for John, admit that he was dead and raise little Torren John to honour the brave warrior whose name lived on in him.

"General, I already told you that Teyla wishes to rest." Kanaan's voice broke through her trail of thought.

Cradling her newborn daughter in her arms Teyla walked to the door. "General O'Neill, I believe I already told you that Kanaan and me will be departing shortly. The naming ceremonies for my daughter will be held with my people." And it would allow her to discuss the change of situation with Rodney.

The grey haired man nodded. "Great. What's the name going to be?"

"Ronan, after one of the bravest and most loyal men I ever knew." Teyla shot back. This man had no right to ask any questions, not when he already brought a man to replace John.

"Look," O'Neill seemed a little odd, or was he just nervous? She wasn't sure. "I know how Woolsey handled things here, this is why he is on the way to Earth with a lot of explaining to do. But we'll need your help to find our people, McKay and Sheppard and bring them home."

Teyla interrupted him. "After all that has happened, I somewhat doubt that you actually care. If you would leave, please. We will be departing shortly."

After the door closed Kanaan took her in his arms. "He seems worried." He said in a hush. "perhaps he means what he is saying."

"He already brought in a replacement for John, a man approved by the IOA." Teyla replied. She had learned a lot about Earth politics in this last year. "Lorne warned me, that they might have written John off." She shook her head. "How can they do that? There is no nation I ever met, no tribe I ever encountered, that would not be proud to have someone like John among them."

"When hope comes to you it sometimes wears a face that you least expect." Kanaan quoted one of the old sayings to her. "don't give up, just now."

Sheppard's team was officially disbanded after McKay fled, Major Lorne's team is down with injuries from that last fight against the Wraith, teams 3 through 9 are on various missions offworld, teams 10 to 16 are securing the city." Dietmar summed up the facts efficiently, albeit his preliminary status report covered several pages.

The condensed version suited O'Neill just fine. "You suggestions?" The question was an old trick, O'Neill had seen countless times with Hammond. By asking his men for their input he got a better picture of their abilities and reactions. He had thrown Dietmar on quite a pile of problems and wanted to see how the man was adjusting.

"Sir, we could call back teams 3 through 9, their missions are nothing that cannot wait, and send them out to those of our allies, who are still talking to us and are in immediate danger of a Wraith attack. Helping to prepare defences, making preps for evac operations in case things go wrong, will help to improve things on our allies side. If we can the cities defence reorganised it could free up some of the other teams, we might need in case one of our not-any-more-speaking-to-us allies gets attacked by the Wraith and is dire need of assistance."

"Nothing that can't wait?" O'Neill challenged the statement.

"Nothing that lives depend upon, Sir." Dietmar corrected. "The missions may have some importance, but if you cut down on them to have the men assist our allies in need, it would send a message…"

"…that I am here to sort out Woolsey's mess." O'Neill had already thought about things along the same lines. "So, about the city defence…" They had a lot of planning to do, to get this rolling.

It was already far past midnight when O'Neill found time to go over some of preliminary reports. But his heart was not in it. During his career he had seen more than one fucked up command situation. It happened, a commanding officer failed, fucked-up badly and it took time to straighten out the mess. But he had rarely seen a cause as bad as this one. He could well read and understand the cautious glances and very guarded statements of the various team leaders he had called back from their missions. It had been painful to see how much of their trust was gone, replaced by a careful wariness that was unlike anything he had ever seen at the SGC. Yes, this was perhaps the reason why this shocked him so much. No matter what happened, no matter how bad the situation got, all of the men and women serving at the SGC trusted their commanding officers and the general in charge of the SGC. General West, General Hammond, Landry, none of them had ever let them down. This trust was absolute, without this trust in your comrades, your fellow soldiers, your superior officers, the SHC would have fallen apart a long time ago. This trust had enabled them to weather the various crisis's , dangers and daily absurdities, it had held them together during invasions, plagues, attacks, torture and ultimately enabled them to get back to their feet time and again.

O'Neill had seen the same trust and the same commitment in the members of the Atlantis expedition, when he had sent them off into the unknown years ago. And now, it was gone. Destroyed by one man and the scheming of the NID. Winning back this trust would not be easy.

O'Neill stood up and went to get another mug of coffee. On the command gallery he saw Dr. Zelenka and Dietmar discussing something. The Czech scientist's eyes went back and forth between a city map and his screens. "It is certainly doable, Dietmar. But quite ruthless, if I might say so." He eyed Dietmar somewhat warily.

Dietmar nodded, admitting the scientist had a point. "You are of course right, Dr. Zelenka. Unfortunately we have a huge terrain to cover and not enough soldiers to get the job done. So we have to find other ways. If you have any other suggestions, other options we could take, it would be very much appreciated."

Zelenka sighed. "I have no other suggestions, Dietmar. I wish I had." He took his laptop and went back to his workstation.

Dietmar's eyes strayed over to the gate and lingered there. His expression was pensive, and he seemed lost in his thoughts for a moment.

O'Neill had strolled over, originally intending to join the debate and to find out what Dr. Zelenka found so disquieting. "Impressive, isn't it?" he asked instead.

"It certainly is, Sir."

O'Neill heard the guarded statement and knew that Dietmar had said what he believed O'Neill expected to hear. It did not fit exactly with the man who had grilled O'Neill with uncomfortable questions during the mess in Greenland. The questions, pointing out all the holes in the cover story, finding all the points were O'Neill contradicted it somewhat, had kept O'Neill constantly on his toes. "Second thoughts?" O'Neill wouldn't be surprised if Schmiedeberg had some second thoughts by now. He wasn't very welcome with the troops, new to fighting wars on this scale and in a completely foreign environment.

"Certainly not, Sir." Dietmar pointed down to the gate. "I was just wondering if there was way to block the command gallery from access from the gateroom, just in case we have the enemy getting at us from that direction."

An all too familiar blaring alert cut their discussion short. "Unscheduled off-world activation, unscheduled off-world activation."

The wormhole became stable and O'Neill's gaze went to the gate technicians that were monitoring the transmissions. "Incoming transmission, Radio only, Sir."

"Let's hear it."

The first thing they heard was the crackling of static, followed by the sound of blastfire. "Atlantis, do you copy?"

O'Neill recognised the voice at once. ""McKay, this is General O'Neill. What's your status?"

"O'Neill… oh thank god…" the voice of the scientist was short of a panic. "two hiveships just appeared over New Athos… they are landing troops… massive attack… troops at the gate…" a new explosion rendered the rest of the transmission inaudible.

"McKay, get away from the gate and find cover. Extraction is on the way."

***

Ronon Dex raised his flashlight high as he stared into the darkness of this abysmal planet. Outside the white circle of light he heard the fluttering of shadowy wings of the Nocturnals that prowled this place. He did his best to ignore them.

"Your friend must have left the gate." Jircanor carried a light similar to Ronon's and was on his guard as well. "That's a dead Nocturnal over there, and two more right by the ravine. Could John Sheppard have tried to find shelter on the bottom of the ravine?"

"No," Ronon pointed eastward. "he has seen the ruins of the colony. He'll go there to find out why the DHD is not working properly."

"For a Lantean, he is blissfully ignorant of their tech." Jircanor observed ironically, while turning around, taking in the whole scene as it was revealed in the light.

"His people don't know. The Lanteans did not leave their tech to them. They have to discover it step by step." Ronon explained, he knew Jircanor's dry comments on the Lanteans. But was it a wonder with a nation, that had fought wars with the Lanteans when they arrived in this galaxy?

"Why does this not surprise me?" Jircanor turned around. "Let's hurry, your friend should be not too far ahead."

Following the trail of corpses was the fastest way to track the path John had chosen. Their flashlights and guns were enough to keep the Nocturnals at bay. And dawn was already rising. Whatever miserable dawn came to this wretched place. Ronon blinked into the sickly pale sunlight it wasn't much and wouldn't get any brighter. But it allowed him to examine the few tracks he had found. "he jumped down here and then climbed on the railing." He concluded.

"He's resourceful." Jircanor jumped for the railing, gripping it with both hands and started to climb, Ronon followed him. Silently they crossed the dangerous bay. On the other side Ronon stopped. "It's a nest." He said in a hush.

Jircanor could feel it too, the cold darkness stirring inside those very walls. "We better…" he began, wanting to work out a strategy first, but Ronon walked past him, climbing up to the entrance, vanishing inside. Jircanor swore and followed him.

Fighting a whole nest of Nocturnals was a terrible risk for a single man to take and even for two men the odds rose only slightly. By the time Jircanor caught up to Ronon, the main chamber was ablaze with flashes from gunfire, burning torches and flashlights. But even as Ronon was putting on one hell of a fight, he was outnumbered and would ultimately loose. Jircanor stopped right by the door, taking up his gun and began weeding out the crowd closing in on Ronon.

Ronon virtually ripped the last Nocturnal to shreds, before he hurried over to the huddled figure on the ground. "John." Hastily freeing the unconscious man from the dark web that entangled him.

Jircanor helped, checking for life signs. "He lives." He said to Ronon. "But he is very weak, the got to him badly and the fed."

Ronon could see that, and he could feel how cold John already was. All too well he remembered his own nightmarish stint on this planet. "We need to get him out of here," it was no question, it was a statement. A statement of what Ronon would do.

"It's nightfall already." Jircanor pointed out. The Nocturnals would be hunting again.

"John won't last another night in this hellhole. The darkness is too close." Ronon insisted. He would carry John to the gate alone if need be.

Jircanor admitted that Ronon had a point. "You carry him, I fight. No stopping, no resting until we reach the gate." They both would have to prove what it truly meant to be a Runner, if they wanted to pull this one off.

Ronon gently lifted Sheppard from the ground, a deep cold radiated from Sheppard's body. A cold Ronon knew. "Don't fear, we'll get you out of here." He said to the sleeping man. He had found him at last, and hell take all that dared to cross their path.


	8. Chapter 8: The battles we chose

Disclaimer: I do not own the characters, names or other various parts of the SG/SGA universe and all rights are with their respective owners. This is a work of non-profit fanfiction, and no copyright infringement is intended.

_Author's note: And here we go for another chapter. I was terribly tired all the time while writing, but the idea would not leave me alone. I hope you have fun. Also, I try my best when writing, but English is a second language for me, and while I give my best to avoid mistakes, they happen still. If my expressions/ sentences/meanings are unclear just point it out to me. Otherwise: have fun._

**Chapter 8: The battles we chose**

_Blind_

_in the dark dungeon's night_

_So God,_

_please take me away from here._

_(Blind Guardian: The bard's song)_

"We'll need at least two of those 'puddlejumpers' if we want to get the people out of there fast." Dietmar was nearly startled to see the change in O'Neill. Up till know he had seen the American General as a somewhat grouchy superior, a man from the field who had risen far and not always aged with grace. But right now O'Neill transformed into a man of action, decisive and with a spirit that belied his years.

"Two jumpers, Sir?" Dietmar asked, glad to focus on the problem at hand. It helped to ignore the growing dread inside him. Right here, in this moment the prospect of fighting ALIENS became very real.

"Tow will be enough, trust me, McKay's ego is not that big." O'Neill studied the map of the Athosian settlement on the screen before him. "We take the two jumpers through the gate, right behind us we send some explosives, let the guards at the gate believe it was an attack. The cloaked jumpers will land here and here. East and South of the village. The troops work in teams of two and three, the main objective is slipping past the enemy troops, finding the civilians and guide them back to the ships. Avoiding detection is imperative, engage the enemy only if discovered. Once a jumper is full it gets back through the gate and we send in the next one. Two teams, consisting of six men each will stage a diversion in the western woods."

"Skirmishers."

O'Neill nodded grimly. "One team engages the enemy, luring them towards this nice rock here, where team two has set explosives to burry our friends below an avalanche."

"Focusing the enemy attention away from the landing points and give us a better chance to extract the population. A good plan, Sir."

O'Neill waved it off. "Schmiedeberg – you were KSK platoon 5, specialising in ground insertion and sniper work, right?" he saw the affirmative and went on. "there are these huts close to the northern wood. We can't land a jumper there, the forest is too dense. I need you and a team to make your way there and get the people there out."

"Aye, Sir. This will need radio silence. Who will coordinate the rest of the teams?" Dietmar knew they needed someone to coordinate this op, someone who was level-headed and calm under pressure.

"I will." O'Neill's attention was already on other aspects. The preparation for the op ran like a clockwork. Time was essential, they needed to hurry.

Still, Dietmar stopped. For a moment he wondered if he had understood wrong. "Sir, is this wise. For a man of your…"

"Of my rank or my age, Captain?" O'Neill interrupted him sardonically. "We do not have remotely enough man for this operation, so we take anyone that can be spared. I know I can."

Dietmar wasn't sure whether he should be annoyed or rather admire the General's decision. The man knew what he was getting himself into, he had fought battles like this before. "Aye, Sir."

***

Rodney was cowering behind a fallen tree. His heart was hammering but he somehow manged to remain motionless. Overhead in the skies darts were shrieking, a white ray of light touched the ground, like a searching finger. Luckily it remained empty. Ever since Sheppard had been taken, Rodney dreaded the white beam, the searching hand falling down from a merciless sky. He hardly dared to look at it. Another dart shot past, circling above the woods. Rodney ducked deeper, trying hard not to shake. He had never been so afraid before. No hairbrained mission had ever scared him so much. This one year among the Athosians had taught him much about himself. He knew he was no survivor, he was no Ronon, who could laugh into the face of any number of enemies and then take them down with a shrug. He was no John Sheppard, undaunted no matter what fate decided to throw at him. Sure he had helped serving Earth time and again, but this…this here was different. Mathematics could not save him here, there was no formula to deal with the Wraith. This here needed muscles, hardness and sheer guts, three things Rodney knew he sorely lacked.

A patrol marched past him, he cowered deeper, grateful they did not see him. Running to the gate had been his idea. Teyla had mentioned the new General, Rodney was relieved to know O'Neill was in Atlantis. If he only would hurry a bit! What took the man so long? He had only barely managed to get the message out before the Wraith landed troops at the gate, and he had to run.

When the patrol was gone, Rodney moved on, away from the open clearing. The culling beam was less likely to hit, once one stayed beneath the trees. For some reasons the beam was easily obstructed by obstacles. It was a pathetic problem really, if the Wraith just were to calibrate the scanners behind it more precisely and were utilising a more sophisticated mathematic model for…. No, he was glad they did not. They could remain ignoramuses for all he cared.

He ducked beneath another bush to evade another patrol. Two Wraith drones marched past him through the forest. Inwardly Rodney praised his luck, but then he realised that they were already focused on another prey. From a hole under a tree-root emerged two small figures, running away from the Wraith as fast as they could, a taller figure followed desperately blocking the drone's path. Banto sticks clashed with drone rifles, Rodney hardly dared to breathe. He knew all three of them: Cylin and Vali, the two children of Merean, the Athosian healer and their adopted brother Athalwyn. Rodney had taught all three during this past year.

Athalwyn dodged another attack, his foot hook made one of the drones stumble. Rodney was keenly aware, that the youth was no real match for the drones and would only buy time for his adopted brother and sister to run. Time bought with his life.

Jumping from his hideout Rodney fired his pistol, hitting the first drone in the back, the second one turned to attack him. One whirl of his long lance and Rodney's pistol went flying into the bushes. "Oh no no…" Rodney retreated, stumbling over another tree root and landed on his but. The Wraith raised his weapon to stab Rodney, his movements froze in midair as a blue light engulfed his body. Hit by stunner he went down.

Rodeny saw Athalwyn, who had taken the stunner from the first drone and came running towards him. "Thanks." Rodney came back to his feet. Cylin and Vali hurried back to them, Vali bringing back Rodney's pistol. "Where do we go?"

Suddenly Rodney found himself in charge of their further escape. Cylin and Vali were looking up to him and Athalwyn… to be honest Rodney had not the faintest idea why the rough youth, who did had troubles to fit into the Athosian community, treated him with a respect bordering to admiration. It did not fit Rodney's picture of typical teenager behaviour at all, and especially not for one that could be right down Ronon's alley when he was older. Yet, they relied on him to find a way out of this mess. Think…. Think… he calmed himself. The Wraith were hunting guided by their sense of odour… they smelled their victims… "The swamp pit – we'll hide there."

The swamp pit proved every bit as the stinking hell hole Rodney remembered it from his first excursion into the marshes, months ago. Ushering Cylin and Vali to hide below a rotting tree stump, Rodney looked around. It was pitch dark around them. And it was silent, it was that eerie silence that freaked him out more than the hammering of the P-90's ever had. Cylin and Vali stayed low and did not make the slightest noise, without any extra encouraging. There had been a time when Rodney would have been astonished about it, would have expected them to panic, to scream, to be completely unreasonable. But then, the last year had taught him a lot. Rodney had seen mothers in the Athosian camp, who taught their children to hide away the moment they could walk on their own, children learning to track and fight from earliest childhood on, children learning to be silent no matter what. Rodney could easily guess that Vali was afraid and wanted to cry, but she would not, she had learned to be silent. Her father had already taught her, that crying would give her away. His eyes met Athalwyn's, who was crouching behind a bush. "We're fine – there's nobody close." The youth whispered.

Rodney nodded, this was good news. If they were lucky, the Wraith would not come here and they could survive this culling. Staring out into the darkness again, he realised that he was kneeling in the mud, very wet mud. Shrugging he shifted a little, so he could rise easier, should they need to run again. He checked his pistol, he had five shots left and another clip in the pouch on his belt. Not much, but it had to be enough. A light sharp shot echoed through the darkness, form several hundred feet away.

Athalwyn turned to Rodney. "What was that?"

Rodney grinned. "Sniper rifle. Help is coming."

***

"Ronon, take cover!" It took no encouraging to make the Satedan warrior obey at once. Left and right past him howled the plasmatic shots, taking down a group of Nocturnals. Their way back to the gate had been a harrowing journey, that had driven Ronon and Jircanor to the very brink of their abilities. But eventually, after attacks by whole groups of Nocturnals, a near fatal encirclement in the ravine and an exhausting climb up to the plateau, they had reached the gate. Ronon could tell by the sound of the shots that Jircanor's gun was short of overheating. Whatever knives, throwing knives or other weapons they had had, they had run out of before they even reached the ravine. Ronon could feel the bloody gashes on his back, more than once he had turned his back to the attackers, to protect the friend he carried from further injury. Not that he cared about the gashes, they would heal, right now he cared only for getting out of here.

Jircanor had taken down the last Nocturnal in vicinity and began dialling the gate. Ronon could see him hurriedly tapping the five symbols, that were not an address but unlocked the DHD, it was too dark to tell what address his comrade was dialling, but as long as it was a safe one, they'd be fine. The wormhole flared to live, the gate was open for them. "Hold him close, it will get a little bit painful once we are through."

Ronon did not need any more explanations, he knew what Jircanor meant. By this words he could even guess the address they were going to as one out of five possible places. Holding Sheppard close, he stepped through the portal.

Rematerializing Ronon found himself nearly shocked, that he did not feel a thing. Somewhere deep down he too expected the searing pain, bringing him down. He could see Jircanor break to his knees, head thrown back in sheer agony. Sheppard's body was shaken by a short shudder, then went still again. Worried Ronon studied his friend. Was John already down this far, that he did not feel the pain of the field, that had blanked out his transmitter for the next some days?

Jircanor came to his feet, his breathing ragged. "Come along, I know I place where we can hide."

Ronon nodded silently and followed him. The gate had been in a half ruined room below ground level. Yet those rooms, that had projected the field always were. Ronon had never known how it worked, in fact his time in Atlantis had brought him to the point that he understood, that a type of energy field was projected through those rooms, inferring with any kind of Wraith-tech, blanking out transmitters for a while. It was a painful process and the longer the body was connected with the transmitter the worse it got. Jircanor's strong reaction was nothing unexpected.

Walking up a long stairwell they got out of the building and Ronon could see where they were. The ruins of a grand city stretched into any direction for miles. High up on a hill above the city he could see the ruins of a palace, still magnificent and beautiful. Broken defence towers, buildings ripped apart by explosions and streets littered with wrecks of armoured vehicles spoke of the battle that had raged here long ago. And it was long ago, there were trees growing on the ruins, and winding flowers creeping up from the cracks between the stones. Ronon knew where they were – he had been here before, if only shortly.

Jircanor led him up on one of the defence towers. The tower was less damaged than the others, the upper levels still intact. The only way up was the narrow stairs, easy to defend even against strong numbers. The room below the platform was clear of rubble or debris, and had probably been used as a camp before.

They bedded Sheppard on their blankets. He did not react in any way, his body was limb, numb and cold. His heartbeat was faint, but steady. "How is he?" Ronon knew the condition firsthand, but had never needed to diagnose it on another.

Jircanor took his small flashlight, and gently opening one of John's eyes. The ray of light touched the iris, but was lost their, a creeping blackness covered all of Sheppard's eyes. Jircanor sighed. "He is in deep, his eyes are all clogged up. It will clear up eventually, provided he lives." He rose. "Keep him warm and wait here. I'll go and get some provisions."

Ronon gently wrapped John into the spare blankets and then, sitting down himself, he cradled Sheppard close to him. Beginning to massage John's back through the blankets. He knew how Sheppard felt, or rather: felt not. The Nocturnal predators had taken all warmth, all warm feelings, every lively spark out of him, and left him in a black, cold nothingness that grew stronger and stronger if it was not fought off. Emotions was what they fed, warmth, everything warm attracted them to feed. Ronon knew that it was imperative to keep John as warm as possible, and let him somehow know, that he wasn't alone in that nightmarish dark he was wandering now.

It took Jircanor more than three hours to return, night was falling and Ronon had started to worry. Even inside a building, the cool of the night air might be enough to kill John right now. Arching an eyebrow at his friend, Ronon pointed towards the two huge lamplike contraptions Jircanor had carried up the tower. "What's that?"

"Glowlamps. They were used to keep guardposts warm on long winter watches. They shed light but radiate lots of heat. Your friend will need it." Jircanor pushed a kind of mag into the lamp and activated it. Softly humming it sprang to live, gracing the room with a soft orange light and a comfortable warmth.

"Good. I havn't had much success in keeping him warm." Ronon admitted. John had not gotten colder, but he had not gotten warmer either.

Jircanor sat down. "I guessed as much. He is far too deep in, to wake from a massage, a hot bath or other simple measures."

"So what can be done?" Ronon asked. He remembered how Cayelan had helped him out, or he remembered parts of it, and wasn't sure if that solution was applicable here.

Jircanor rested his elbows on his knees and cast a serious glance to Ronon. "That depends on you, and a little on your friend there. I was able to locate a cryogenic storage depot that had not lost power and find some meds that might help him. Or assist in helping him. How easily does your friend fly into a rage?"

Ronon blinked irritated. "Why do you care? He won't eat us alive for saving his life."

Jircanor shook his head. "This was not what I meant. When I fell into a nest, as a young soldier, my captain saved me. He brought me back to consciousness with a small shot of stimulants and that put me through the hardest drill I ever had, ridiculing me every step along the way. Until I lost it, flew into a rage and halfway beat him to death. He later told me, that he had intended for me to react this way, the rage burned all the cold, the emptiness away, brought me back from the unfeeling state I was in. Hard but effective."

Ronon shook his head. "No, John isn't like that. He…. He internalises his pain, never talks about it, and pretends everything is fine. He puts on a brave face and lets nobody see how bad he truly is. And what your people called 'mild stimulants' is considered a illegal drug among nearly all nations."

Jircanor could not help but wonder where Ronon had gotten so perceptive. The Lanteans had changed him more, than he imagined possible. "Well then," he suggested. "we best go for the old-fashioned method. Search not for rage but for passion. In his state it will take some time to coax some reaction out of his body, but once it starts you should be right on track, and it will take care of getting him out of the unemotional state as well. Easy, nearly foolproof and blessedly drug-free." He saw Ronon's mien and laughed. "Don't tell me you got all prude among the Atlantians?"

Ronon growled. Sure, the thought came dangerously close to some things he had felt… but this here was different and what mattered most: it was wrong. Not wrong in the sense of morals, but wrong for John. He had already enough done to him, without any control over it, Ronon would not add to this list needlessly. "No." he said. "it is not me. But John's society frowns on such things."

"Lanteans." Jircanor's voice showed his disdain clearly. "They were about the worst that could happen to this galaxy."

"It would be wrong." Ronon said, he wanted Jircanor to understand this was nothing about any kind of bigotry. "The control about his life has been taken away from him too often already."

Again Jircanor marvelled when Ronon had found himself growing wise. "Then, this might be the best way." He extracted a small cylinder from his pack. The needle glittered coldly in the light.

"Drugs again." Ronon scowled. "What is it, this time?"

"Shivastan, strong shot. It will be extremely painful for him, but get his body back to the living world. Unfortunately the side effects for the mind…"

"Don't tell me he will turn into an unfeeling zombie, like Ulor did."

"No, the side effects are, among others: aggression, violence, destructive impulses, extreme Alpha-male behaviour and well – he'll be rather horny."

"Is there no other way?" Ronon asked. It seemed that their options were limited between bad and worse. He guessed that the stuff in the cylinder was the next nasty drug, Jircanor's people had once invented. But if worst came to worst he'd go for this way, at least John would have some decision about what he did.

Jircanor could see that Ronon was not happy with these options. It puzzled him, the Ronon he had known had taken one of the options, and run with it. Consequences be damned. "well, there is another way," he said after a while. "But it is none I recommend. It is the mind-link. I help you to link directly with John's mind, and you use your feelings, your rage, your compassion, all your strong memories to coax him out of the darkness. Be warned – you will be probably confronted with some of his darkest memories, with memories of things he is ashamed of. He might not appreciate you knowing what you saw. The same goes for you – you will be unable to control what he sees."

"You actually can do this? Link our minds?" Ronon asked. Jircanor had never shown any signs of special abilities beyond those of a soldier and runner. And people who had special talents couldn't help but to show them off.

"How do you think my people have withstood the Lanteans when they showed up here ten thousand years ago?" Jircanor asked. "Yes, I can link you and I can sever the link once this is all over. The choice is yours."

***

The shrieking of the darts drew closer. O'Neill gestured the group of Athosians to get down between the rocks. The white rays missed them by a good fifty meters, which was fine by him. This was the second group he and Sergeant Myers led back to the jumpers. The Athosians had reverted to their ancient strategy of escaping Wraith attacks: they had scattered making it hard for the Wraith to cull them all, and making it hard for the Atlantians to save them in the process. The moment the darts were past them, O'Neill gestured the group to get up and on they went. The intervals between the darts passing by, swinging around and coming back, were short, but if used well they could make it to the jumper.

"This is team 5, another seven people at point one." He heard Lieutenant Indriedent's voice over the radio. So another group of Athosians had made it to the jumpers. Again he gestured the people to get down, as the darts swooped by. When they had passed he led the whole group across the small clearing on their path and they were well under the trees again, when the darts came back. They still had to be careful, to avoid being found by the footpatrols consisting of two to ten drones. Luckily those patrols had not the keen senses and avid watchfulness of the Jaffa, it was quite possible to sneak past them.

When they reached the clearing, he saw Lieutenant Indriedent and his team, consisting of Hawkings and Bates, still there. "Sir, the jumper is heading back." The Lieutenant reported in low tones. "The other one should be here any minute."

O'Neill nodded. It might be a hassle to wait for the jumper, but knowing that they already had gotten enough people out, to crowd two of them, was something good. The Athosians did not need instruction to cower down under the fir trees. Through his field glasses O'Neill studied the woods west of them. There were two patrols under the trees, they kept a clear pattern, but went slow. At least there was no other group of Athosians close by, so the drone's were welcome to play hide and seek in this part of the forest…. O'Neill frowned when he saw a small movement beneath the rocks higher uphill. Maxing out the reach of his glass, he saw a small figure huddled in a crack of the crushing rocks. This couldn't be. The charges were already set on the other side to bring it down on the Wraith troops, once they got there. O'Neill took down the glass, rubbed his eyes and the looked again. It was no hallucination, a small boy was hidden in that damned crack of the rocks. Somebody must have lifted him up and told him to crawl in the narrow rift. A hideout, but one that would be blown up sooner or later. A cold hand clenched around O'Neill's heart. This was just a kid, hiding away from those whacked soul-feeding bastards. A kid that would get blown up if he did not get away from there, ASAP. "Lieutenant, take Myers here, partner him with Hawkins and send them out again as soon as the jumper is in." O'Neill ordered the astonished young man. "Same goes for you, once the jumper is there, see we get more Athosians out of here."

"Sir, what…?"

"That's an _order_, young man."

The Lieutenant paled, but nodded. "Aye, Sir."

Without another word Jack slipped away into the darkness. He would have to sneak past those patrols if he wanted to get to the kid. And he had not much time.


	9. Chapter 9: In the nightmares of the dark

Disclaimer: I do not own the characters, names or other various parts of the SG/SGA universe and all rights are with their respective owners. This is a work of non-profit fanfiction, and no copyright infringement is intended.

**Big Author's note: The events depicted in this chapter, as well as all characters are entirely fictional. The nightmares especially were not written to recreate, reflect or otherwise portrait any realistic or historical situation. The author tried very hard to give them the not always logical structure of dreams, and those dream scenes were not written for the fun of writing such scenes but to portrait the state John's mind is in after the Nocturnals fed on him. **

**Chapter 9: In the nightmares of the dark**

_Drowning is not so pitiful  
As the attempt to rise.  
Three times, 'tis said, a sinking man  
Comes up to face the skies,  
And then declines forever  
To that abhorred abode,  
Where hope and he part company –_

_(Emily Dickinson)_

Ronon bit his lip, trying to hide his agitation. Not that he had any doubts in his decision, this was the only acceptable way, but contrary to physical discomforts he was still nervous about all things that mess with his mind. Had it been himself, fallen into the Nocturnal nest, he'd preferred any solution that kept things on a physical level, he knew he could handle that. Determined not to hesitate any longer, he shoved aside his whispering fears and focused on the here and now. "Is there any thing I can do?" ,he asked Jircanor, who was kneeling beside sleeping John Sheppard, exactly opposite of Ronon.

"Did Cayelan teach you the meditation of pain?" Jircanor asked, his focus never shifting from Sheppard.

"He tried, but as one of the best teachers said: I am hopeless." Ronon repeated Teyla's words, well remembering the failed lessons of meditating. She had tried to teach him things far different from his earlier lessons, but the outcome had been the same. "I guess I was lacking focus," he added.

"Seven years on the run should be enough for anyone to meditate on pain." Jircanor looked up. "Just try to focusing on John, on your wish to help him, on reaching out to him," he instructed Ronon. "Once the bond springs alive you will feel a strong compulsion to sleep, don't fight it. Thus your subconscious mind connects to John's subconscious. You will start witnessing his dreams, during the first you will hardly be able to do anything. If you can focus on your friend, focus on the emotions the dreams wake in you. The stronger you project, the better. By the moment you break through to him, he will start seeing your dreams. Like him you have no control over what he sees, but the stronger the emotions you project, the greater his chances to make it. Focus on your compassion, your rage, all that Satedan fire inside you and you will be fine." Jircanor sounded far more optimistic than he felt. Ronon's mind lacked any kind of training, to enable him to handle something as complex as the mindlink. He was relying on his emotions, his inner strength alone, and while Jircanor knew that Ronon was strong, he wondered if this would be enough.

Focusing on John, Ronon settled in a cross-legged sitting position and tried to ignore anything else. Without knowing it he started breathing deeply and slowly as Teyla had taught him. From far away he heard Jircanor's voice: "Your road is your own – though far from it you travel – the night that beckons on the horizon cannot be escaped – do not fear the road into the darkness for there will be a light." Ronon was about to tell him to stop quoting whacked poetry, but he found himself unable to speak, his mind was adrift, slowly falling into the darkness.

_If the darkness had seemed impenetrable, then the heavy snow made it even worse. John had to shake his compass, it seemed frozen. He knew this was unlikely, yet the small needle seemed to be moving slower than before. John was afraid they might have walked into the wrong direction but the small needle confirmed what his sense of direction still tried to tell him: they were on right way. If there was something like the right path in the middle of another storm rising in the dark of the polar night. He turned to his companion, who was leaning against an iced rock. He older man looked as exhausted as John felt and he had every right to be. "Captain, we need to go on, the emergency depot should be some more miles east of us." John could not help it, the worry crept into his voice. Captain Ryman had been injured when their helicopter malfunctioned and crashed on a glacier with a name John was unable to pronounce._

_"Let's go on, Lieutenant." Ryman's voice echoed exhaustion. "If we reach the depot, we should be able to contact the base."_

_Walking through the polar night, the snow closing in on the them, they trudged along. John focused on keeping them on course. Ryman kept up with the pace he set, but time and again John checked his pace for his wounded comrade to keep on. He could see that the Captain got weaker. John wanted to curse that damned storm, the darkness, himself volunteering to test that damned helicopter under arctic conditions, but no curse would save them. They had to find a way out of this, alone. Around them was nothing but ice, and rocks and falling snow. Again John checked the compass. He had to be sharp, alert or they might miss their destination and end up walking all the way down to Upernavik. "Captain, we need to go on. It can't be far any more."_

_"Good, Lieutenant." Ryman struggled to his feet again. But John had already seen his face and he suddenly wondered if this emergency depot existed at all. Or were they just walking to their deaths? Keeping on and on until the dark and the cold won out in the end? Until they would lie down and die in the cold, covered by a white blanked like everything around them? John wasn't even afraid of the thought, giving up would be easy…_

***

The drone chose a very inappropriate time to stop and look around carefully. Jack grimaced, those drones were a pain in the ass and this one over there seemed intend to grow roots in the spot. Carefully he lifted a stone, tossing it full strength downhill into some bushes. The effect was a thumb and a whistling of leaves, as well as the bush shaking. The drone turned around and hastened into that direction. Jack smirked. Stupid. In the back of the drone he made his way uphill, hiding behind a rock, when the other patrol came close. They never cared or wondered why the other patrol had diverted from it's original course. They just marched on. The moment the coast was clear Jack went on speedily. He had not much time left. He could already hear the shots being fired on the other side of the rock. Once they had lured the Wraith close enough they would trigger the explosion, collapsing all the rock down on the drones. Dumb as the drones were they would probably fall for it. But Jack still needed to hurry.

Undeterred he reached the rocks. The crack he had seen from down below was actually about three feet above ground embedded in the rough rock face. Jack could see the a small face up there. "Hey, Kiddo it's time to go."

"Father said – wait for me," a small voice replied and a curious face came closer to the brink of the crack.

Jack checked the area around, the drones patrols were far away right now, but there was no one else here. It seemed logical that the father had hidden the child here before….before what? Jack looked up to the small face. It was a boy, not older than three years he guessed. "Your father asked me to get you, kiddo. Now c'me on."

"Why?" A frown rose on the small face as the boy eyed Jack quizzically.

Jack tried not to get impatient. It would not take long before the patrols turned around and came back, but impatience would not get him anywhere. Kids could be stubborn, he knew. "Look, your father – your father could not make it back, because of the patrols. So he asked me to go." It was not true, but Jack hoped it would convince the boy.

"Who are you?"

"I'm Jack. And now kiddo – we have to run."

Much to his relief Jack saw the boy nod. "Good." And the kid actually came as close as possible to the opening of the crack. Jack reached up and lifted him out of the hiding place. Jack's radio woke to crackling life. "All teams: the torch is falling!"

Jack cursed, holding the boy he began racing downhill. Patrols be damned. They were out of time. Ten seconds… twenty…. Thirty… there was not enough ground to cover. Holding the boy close, Jack turned his back to the rocks, shielding the little one. A deep rumble grew into a rolling blast, rocks crack, splintered, came crashing downhill, trees splintered like dry wood. Jack stumbled, nearly fell, something hard hit him, throwing him down. He barely managed to shield the boy, then his world went black.

***

_"What have found here? Another rat?" The voice was dripping with malice. John Sheppard tried to hold himself up straight, as far as this was possible when forced to be kneeling on the ground. He still managed to catch a glance at the other prisoner. Like John he had not uniform any more, except tall, dark blonde and grey eyes, nothing registered with John. This for sure was not the man he had been sent to extract._

_"You know, your country denies having any soldiers on our ground as of this time." The speaker stepped closer, studying John's bruised face. "And do you know what this means?"_

_"No, but you sure will tell me." John replied in English. He would not have been able to understand the different dialects of this place. What the hell had gone wrong? He had been creeping through these blasted mountains for hours, to get to the pickup point. But he had walked into an ambush._

_"It means that you DO NOT EXIST. Very much like your friend over there. And men who do not exist – do not have rights."_

_"As if this would make a difference to you." John spat. He had learned what their ideas of POW were shortly after being taken. Another hit, deliberately aimed in the face silenced him._

_"But I will give you another chance, Lieutenant – I am gracious today. Tell me about our friend here. Where he comes from, his name and what he was doing AT MY BASE and I let you go."_

_John did not look directly at their interrogator. Honestly he had no idea who the other prisoner was, he had seen him for the first time in his life. "I have no idea." He would not have told anyway, but the bitter irony was, that he was telling the truth._

_"Really? I am very sorry, that makes you useless for me, Lieutenant." The older man shook his head. "And if you are useless…" his eyes wandered to the other prisoner. "Still no answers?" The man spat a sentence at the interrogator that John did not understand. The language sounded vaguely reminiscent of the Russian John had heard on the lesson tapes of his father as a kid. But the intonation was different._

_The interrogator shrugged. "I guessed as much. You both are of no further use to me, as you do not exist. So we will bring you to a place for folks like you."_

_The guards dragged them through the building. It looked a little like an abandoned hospital to John, broken and in a gross state of disrepair. Eventually they reached an old elevator shaft. The interrogator gestured the soldiers to stop. He turned again to John. "You know – there were always people like you. Believing to keep silent and in the end to win out. Dissidents, Antisocial elements, you name them. But there was always was a place were they stopped existing – here. They were sent here to be healed, you know. This was… what do you call it – an asylum?"_

_John looked around, if this place had once been an asylum it was long ago, or the conditions must have been less than desirable. "Calling someone mad won't silence the truth he might speak." He wouldn't give that guy the satisfaction of agreeing with him on anything. And this story, of people who would not agree being thrown into loony bins, sounded like the stuff his father had told him, a long time back._

_The smile of the interrogator grew unpleasant. "And there were always those who would not be healed. They had to be dealt with, you see that, don't you? So they the ceased to exist, and went down there." He pointed down the elevator shaft. "Down there, in the dark, where they would creep around. You see that I must send you down there, if you don't do something to warrant EXISTING?"_

_John knew that the interrogator was playing with them. Whatever answer they would give, the game would go on, no matter what. Thus he shrugged. "If you pretend that we are not here – who is then hallucinating?"_

_He was backhanded again. "Throw them down there." The interrogator said coldly. "Let those who live down there take care of them."_

_John struggled against the guards, but to no avail, the pushed him to the brink and on a grate hanging from some dismal chains, the moment he landed on it, it began rattling down. He could see the guards pushing the other man to the brink too. He too struggled, fought back, but not to free himself. With a ferocious will he got hold of one of the guards and took him down, both of them landing hard on the rattling grate. John heard a hard snap, as the guard's neck broke._

_Darkness enveloped them, they were still going down. And they went fast. "What did you just do?" John wasn't sure if the man would understand him, or if he really had snapped the guard's neck. The man might have been killed by the fall after all._

_"Getting us some equipment. Where ever comrade colonel sends us, it won't be health spa." Was the curt answer, moments later John found a flashlight and a sidearm tossed at him._

_"You don't believe the story, about people being thrown down here?" he asked his foreign comrade._

_"In fact – I do. It's either that or something else. Probably both."_

_John nodded. "Ok. We need to get out of here." He could not see much in the darkness and activated the flashlight. He could see that his companion was still searching the dead guard._

_"This clown had not much useful stuff on him."_

_John nodded. They had already more than they could expect to have, given their situation. His comrade – hell he needed a name for the man, even as this wasn't the place to ask questions. "Ok. Ted, if this is the basement of an asylum, it should have some other places where it goes up to the surface?"_

_"Ted?" The scowl was one with a passion._

_"Just a name. You can call me Jerry."_

_The glance John saw, reminded him that they might not share the same humour. "You can call me Illo, for the time being. This place must have some kind of air vents, water systems and other stuff leading back up. We just need to find them."_

_Their descend stopped. John raised the flashlight to see what was ahead. The light illuminated a dismal room, a kind of cellar, some shambles and some rubbish littered the ground. A shriek rose from the darkness, and John saw a movement. He was hit and fell down, fists hit him, he felt hands clawing, trying to fight his attacker off, but the pressure lifted in moments, when his attacker was gripped by Illo and tossed against the wall. John came up again. In the focus of his flashlight he saw a mangled human figure, half naked, lying still in front of the wall. He had to try hard not to vomit. "This…this was a human being…"_

_"Emphasis on WAS." Illo laid a hand on John's shoulder. "Come on, we need to get out of here."_

_The journey through the bowels of this place was a nightmare. They were attacked time and again. John could not bring himself to kill those wretched beings pre-emptively, he tried to scare them away, or to just render them unconscious. They were people, people tortured, people mistreated, but still people. Illo left many of them unconscious but others were dead. It was him who shot the two that managed to creep in John's back. John felt sick, when he saw the two mangled corpses he had wanted to tell Illo off, but in the pale focus of his flashlight, he had seen a pair of eyes as pained and as haunted as his own. Thus they had journeyed on, into a maze of tunnels that sometime connected to an old sewer system._

_Eventually they reached a ledge and saw below them the entrance of the sewers. There was a heavy grate blocking the entrance. They did not see daylight, but they felt the cool air of the night from outside. "There's three or four of those wretches down there." Illo whispered. "You stay here – I take care of them. When I am done come down and we get this valve over there, to move. That should open the gate."_

_John shook his head. "There are more than five, six or seven more likely. You won't be able to subdue them quickly." Which meant they would have to revert to killing again._

_"I know." Illo's voice was cold, calm and determined. "It should not take too long." He saw John's protest and silenced it with a curt gesture. "Listen … Jerry – what will happen down there is dirty, brutal and inhuman. You are a good man, that much have I seen these last hours. It would break you. Don't do it to yourself."_

_"And it won't do the same to you?" John didn't believe the calm, cold demeanour of Illo. The man had been as horrified as he himself was, even if he made a better job of hiding it._

_"No. I can handle it." Without further discussions Illo dropped down the ledge. The sounds from down there did not need any explanation. John did not need to see what happened._

_"Lieutenant, wake up." John's breath went raggedly when he woke up. "Illo, where's Illo?" he murmured._

_"Lieutenant, you need to calm down. You are safe. You understand me? You are safe." The doctor was speaking slowly and calmly._

_From what John could see, he was in a hospital, or an infirmary. He was back home, with his people. "what happened? Where is Illo?"_

_"Calm down, Lieutenant. You were taken POW when the extraction went awry." The doctor said, while checking John's vitals. "You escaped and were found, wounded, feverish, wandering the mountains. When the chopper brought you here, you were still raving about your comrade, a guy named Illo and about an asylum."_

_"where is he? Did he escape too?" John tried to remember, but everything was so dizzy. They were pumping him with some heavy painkillers._

_"Lieutenant, you got a hit to your head, you were hallucinating." The doctor said softly. "You were alone, you escaped alone."_

_"No, no – I remember it. Illo got us out of there, he killed those poor bastards…"_

_The doctor sat down beside the bed and studied John thoughtfully. "When you did not stop raving about this other soldier – Illo, the major assumed there was somebody else in need of help. He sent and inquiry to all other Nato troops down here, asking for someone named Illo. There was nothing."_

_John shook his head. "it was an alias, not his real name."_

_A friendly smile from the doctor silenced him. "A French Colonel actually knew the name, John. When we asked him if he could tell us, if there was a guy calling himself Illo with one of the contingents he got all amused and then asked: "Aren't you some centuries too late, to find him?"" The Doctor managed a good imitation of the French accent. "Illo was General of the Croats, several centuries back and quite a ruthless man for sure."_

_John tried to rise and make them understand – Illo had been an alias, there had been an other soldier. But the doctor gently made him lie down again. "Lieutenant, you were injured pretty badly and probably suffered some nasty things during your imprisonment. While you escaped you had to do some things, that do not always sit well with the human mind. You were wounded, alone and in a dire situation and your mind created a comrade for you, someone who did the worst things, who was harder and more ruthless than you. That's why you named him Illo. He was an hallucination, nothing else."_

_John fell back and closed his eyes. Had nothing of it been real? The asylum? Those wretched people down there? The interrogator? When he slowly opened his eyes again, he saw the doctor and a nurse exchange worried glances._

***

_Ronon was seven when Tamarlaine began to teach him the blade. It started in the long summer after his grandfather died. Young Ronon had been devastated when the old man died, leaving him alone. He had never felt more alone than then. His mother did her best, but taking care of five children and earning a living for the whole family taxed her strength greatly. Ronon had never known his father, he had died in a battle when Ronon was only two years old. His grandfather had taken care of him. In the weeks following his grandfather's death he would creep away form the house before dawn and run through the endless fields down to the river. It had been spring and the river had been still springing over the rocks. Ronon already knew the river would run dry when the summer came. His home province Khaleda was famous for it's long hot dry summers, when water became precious. Only the complicated waterworks where his mother was working, helped to keep the fields watered in the summer._

_It had taken a week or so for him to register that he was not the only one who came to sit by the river for hours. Tamarlaine came here too. Everybody knew Tamarlaine, he lived in a hut close to the waterworks station and was the only one able to repair the engine that powered the station. He lived apart form others and people respectfully left him alone. He was a hero, had been the hero of all Sateda years ago. People would still whisper about twelve hive ships taken out by sheer ingenuity and daring. But something had happened to Tamarlaine, something dreadful, mist people took it for a fact that he wasn't right there any more. He hardly ever talked and people left him alone, showing their respect by not trying to come close. Ronon knew better. He knew Tamarlaine could still talk, last winter he had scolded Ronon fiercely, after rescuing the boy from drowning in the river. And sometimes when he was sitting on the rocks above the river, he would sing. Always the same song, the long mournful ballad of Lost Sateda, of the Sateda that had ceased to exist the day the rings awoke again. Ronon knew the song by heart and loved the slow, mournful tune. Somehow it seemed to reflect he pain he felt since his grandfather had died._

_One day, the sun was already becoming stronger and the endless rolling hills on both sides of the river were green with crops, Tamarlaine had awaited Ronon at the river. Silently he handed Ronon a practice sword. It was made of metal, with a dulled edge and heavier than Ronon expected. It didn't need any words, or explanations, he understood what Tamarlaine was telling him, that it was time to get on with the lessons his grandfather started._

_That evening Ronon was hardly able to walk home, but luckily his older sister Tigan did not see it. Their mother was working another night shift at the waterworks. Before the morning came Ronon crept out of the house and went back to the river. His body hurt all over, but it was a good hurt, it relieved the pain that was eating away his heart._

_The summer went and the river ran dry, the ground became all hot and rough. Ronon learned to use the blade, to run and dodge and attack, to spin and whirl and hack away. His body got all wiry, and he was grateful, his meagre faire at home barely able to sustain the heavy exercise. Without words Tamarlaine began to bring food to their practice place and see to it that Ronon ate it all. At first Ronon was hesitant to accept the offer, one of the first rules his mother had instilled in him, was never to accept food from others, because it meant depriving them of what little they had themselves. But Tamarlaine was persistent and eventually Ronon's hunger won out. When the heavy autumn rains set in Ronon's mother became wind of Ronon's new friend. Deeply embarrassed that one of her children had hassled the warrior she went to see Tamarlaine. Ronon never learned what had been said that day, but the next morning his sister woke him up, to send him over to Tamarlaine's house for training. Ronon went gladly. He went to Tamarlaine's house as long as the winter rains lasted, and back to the river once another spring came. Tamarlaine taught him to fight with the blade, to throw knives, to fight hand to hand, and to shoot. When mood struck him, or he had a talkative day, he would tell Ronon about the history of Sateda, of battles, wars and fighting the Wraith. Wide-eyed Ronon listened, he treasured any one of these stories in his heart, would repeat them to himself, until he knew them by heart and would sometimes tell them to Zycar and Bryn, his small brothers._

_The next summer was the longest and hottest in decades, the river dried up, the water works had a hard time to pump up enough water for the fields and those who did not get water rations were hard off. Tamarlaine taught Ronon how to deal with hardships, taught him tricks how to get on in dire times and still send him home sore from a day of training. He encouraged Ronon not cut his hair any more. "You are no field worker, you'll be a fighter, don't try to hide it." He told Ronon on a day when the heat was sitting heavy on the dry river valley. "Never try to blend in with others – it's dishonest." The day in late autumn when the heat finally broke and a thunderstorm rolled over the valley, they both stood high above the river, watching how the dry riverbed filled up again. "That's how nature teaches us to be persistent, no matter how hard and dry a summer, the rain will come back eventually and things will look up again." Tamarlaine told him. "No matter how dark the moment looks, let no one tell you that the night is perpetual."_

_Had it been for Ronon alone to decide he would have lived gladly for ever in that valley beside the dying river. He had no wish to leave the hot vale and the endless hills covered by fields. But the choice was not his. The culling came three years later in the winter. While Ronon managed to get Zycar and Bryn away from the Wraith, they took his mother, his sisters and Tamarlaine. For days Ronon could not let go of the rage and the burning grief. Again he had lost a father, and this time he had become an orphan._

_Tamarlaine's legacy consistent of three things: a Kymar dagger, a double edged sword and a contact. Three days after the culling, a man sought Ronon out. "How old are you, Ronon? He asked the startled boy._

_Raging as he might be, Ronon was still on his toes. That one might be looking for a workhand, and he had two brothers to look after. "Thirteen." ,he lied. At thirteen it was legal to work, and to earn money._

_The man smiled. "Good. Tamarlaine told me about you, that you had the markings of a fine warrior. What do you think, Ronon – are you up to real soldier training?"_

_"What about my brothers?" Ronon asked back. He wanted to go, the chance to become a warrior wasn't easily offered to someone who grew up in the fields or factories, but he had a responsibility now, he had to take care of them._

_His guest studied the sleeping figures of the small boys for a moment. "You have no other relations? Aunts or Uncles?"_

_Ronon sighed. "An Uncle but he doesn't approve of us, and he would treat them badly." He explained. "I have to take care of them. They are my brothers." And their Uncle was an old, mean man who did not like his "bastard nephews"._

_Years later Ronon would realise that the question had been a test, and that he had passed. "If you agree to do some voluntary work in defence construction – that's very hard work – we could sign you up a little prematurely, and as orphans from a military family, they would be placed in a good home and be sent to a good school." And Ronon agreed._

***

O'Neill groaned, he hated pains in his back. He hated pains in his knees even more, but right now his back was aching. He tried to move, and to his surprise found himself able to do so. Some small rubble fell but he was not buried under heavy stuff. At once he checked how his small companion was. The boy seemed unscathed. "You okay, kiddo?"

The boy nodded. "Yes. What was that?" His eyes pointed uphill.

O'Neill turned around and saw that the rock face was gone for good, the whole hillside looked slightly devastated and there were no Wraith in near vicinity. "A case of really bad timing, kiddo." O'Neill got up fully. "Remember – never let anyone talk you into doing such stunts for a living, will you?"

The boy looked up at Jack quizzically, but said with the seriousness only a child could have. "Yes, Jack."

Jack lifted the boy from the ground, his back protested loudly against carrying the child, but thus he would be much faster. "Okay. Let's see we get out of here."

The direct way back to the jumper was blocked by some heavy boulders that had come loose during the initial explosion. Jack silently prayed thanks that those boulders had missed them, buried under one of them, would have meant certain death for both of them. Having memorized the map of this place Jack had next to no problems to find an alternate route. Walking briskly, he realised that the fighting had ceased much in this area. There were no more shrieking darts in the air. So perhaps the worst was over.

All his thoughts went out of the window, when he heard the distinctive noise of a single pistol shot, in the woods left of him. Turning around he saw a Wraith drone going down and Rodney McKay, the gun still levelled, ready to shoot again. "McKay, I may be greying – but I am not white yet. See?" Jack called out.

McKay put down his gun. "General, it's good to see you." Behind Rodney two kids and a teen came up. The kids hid behind Rodney, while the teen deprived the drone of something that looked like a pair of ulaks.

"The jumper is east of here." Jack said, taking up pace again. "Are there more with you?"

"No. We know where the jumper is. Sergeant Myers told us where to go. There was another group in need of help, and I told him, we'd make it on our own."

For the first time Jack took the time and really looked at Rodney McKay. The man was dirty, exhausted and wet from hiding in some kind of nasty mud. He had just shot a Wraith drone and was hunted by more. The Rodney McKay Jack had known would have whined and complained and never left the protection of an armed escort. "Who are you and what have you done to McKay?" Jack asked.

Rodney sighed. "That's a long story, could we discuss this later please? Preferably somewhere warm and dry?"

Jack grinned. "That's more like it."

The sheer relief on Lieutenant Indriedent's face when he saw Jack approaching the clearing, spoke for itself. "Sir, it's good to have you back. We just had another jumper out. A group lead by Myers and Hawkins is to arrive here shortly, they will fill up the next one. Most enemy troops are retreating."

Jack nodded. "What about the Captain and his team?" he had not heard from them over the radio long before he had taken off for the woods.

"Malmstroem and Black, who went with him are leading another group back to the second landing point. They radioed us ten minutes ago, that they found a whole group hiding in some caves."

Jack understood very well what the Lieutenant didn't say, that he had no idea where Captain Schmiedeberg was. And the Lieutenant was nobody who would not have tried to contact the man, that much was sure. Jack tapped his radio. "Schmiedeberg, come in." Silence was the only answer he got. "Schmiedeberg, this is O'Neill, what's your status?" Jack had the distinct feeling that his first message had been heard, and gone unanswered.

"Schmiedeberg here," the voice he heard was only just above a hush. "I am trailing a group of prisoners. Direction of the gate, number of enemies: six. Requesting immediate radio silence, Sir." Jack bit down a curse. He had no position of the man, and another radio signal might give the man away.

"John!" the shout broke through O'Neill's musings. The group of survivors had arrived and a woman hurried to the small boy beside him. It took Jack a moment to recognise a distraught and wounded Teyla.

"Don't worry, the boy's alright. He just got to witness a big bang." He said, making light of the situation.

The bronze haired woman looked up from hugging her child. "He was with Kanaan." She said, her voice shaking.

***

_The pain broke through John's unconscious mind bringing him back to the waking world. He did not need to open his eyes to know he was still in that cave. They had another go at him, he had lost count, how often they had come back for him. If they did not go for the other prisoners. Last time John had tried to count in the darkness, they had been four. Three others and himself. None of them were American, as much he had already learned. But when they did not come for him, they came for one of the others. This never changed. John forbid himself to dwell on it any longer, or he would give in to the dread. How long was he already here? Too long, but he had lost count of the days too._

_They came again, to drag him out this time. But he wasn't alone, they had taken one of the others too. The harsh sunlight blinded John, he was blinking hard. The forced him down to his knees, shouts and laughter in a language he did not understand. He tried to straighten up, but a punch made this effort worthless. The other prisoner was in the same situation opposite of him. A man strolled in the space in between them. John's stomach clenched, the leader. That could not be good, it had been worse before… he tried not to show any fear. He would not give in to them. Not just now. The man raised a blade – a damned scimitar – and rested the sharp blade against John's throat. John raised his head, searching the man's eyes. They were cold, dark, emotionless._

_Suddenly the blade was gone and the man walked over to the other prisoner. Two of his cronies hold the man's arm straight, while the leader measured the man's wrist with the blade. John shuddered, they were going to… no they could not… but they would. For the first time he sought the other man's gaze, trying to give him whatever silent support he could lend him. His gaze met grey eyes, cold and dispassionately._

_John froze, it could not be… it was impossible… the doctor's had agreed it had been just a hallucination… but he knew these eyes, had seen them before. As he had seen that face beneath that ragged dark blonde hair. Illo._

_High up in the air, John could hear the planes flying. The high frequency was enough to tell him what machines where up there. They were taken and tossed back into the cave in haste. John managed to crawl over to the other prisoner. Right now, their guards had other worries and no time to keep them separate. "Illo?" He did hardly dare to ask. If he was hallucinating again, then things were worse than he imagined._

_"Jerry, long time no see." The voice was hoarse, and echoed a state that was far from good._

_"If I am hallucinating again, then it took an inconvenient time." John wondered what was real, right now. Had his mind conjured up an old surreal acquaintance to help him again?_

_"Hallucinating? Did you get a hit to the head?" Illo's breath came raggedly, painfully and far two slow._

_John waved it off. He listened to the noises outside, something was going on. It might be there chance. The only chance they might get. "It's time to get out of this hell-hole."_

_Illo nodded. "Couldn't agree with you more. Take the other two and run."_

_John had already managed to get to his feet. Offering a hand to Illo, to help him up. "You are coming with us."_

_"No. Would slow you down."_

_John shook his head. "I don't leave anyone behind here."_


	10. Chapter 10: Between fire and darkness

**10. Between fire and darkness. **

_Do not go gentle into that good night.  
Rage, rage against the dying of the light._

_(Dylan Thomas)_

_John knelt behind a dark rock boulder , that gave him a fair to excellent cover and peered down the long pass. Nothing moved down there, at least not by now. The Taliban troops had been retreating behind the ledge again, taking along their fallen comrades as far as possible. Which had been prevented quite well by the defenders of the lonely pass, for they needed the ammo and weapons of the dead enemies. In his mind John could hear the voice of the Taliban leader down there quite well. "There are no ten men in this damned pass, what prevents you from chasing them downhill again?"_

_Nothing, despite the rocky uneven grounds, the fact the defenders did neither run out of ammo nor guns, and their supplies were still not at an end. John answered in his mind the question._

_A movement from beyond the ledge caught his eye. Really, one of their attackers attempted to sneak up to their position behind the rocks. John, who knew every shade and form of the rocks by now, having stared at them for five long hours, calmly raised his gun. The Taliban fighter had to resurface behind the mushroom shaped rock again, this he knew… and there the enemy came. John let go of his breath and fired a single shot. The echo of the shot rang between the rock faces, echoing all down the long pass.. The Taliban fighter fell and did not rise again. Silently John studied the ragged, exhausted troop of his. They all were on the verge of a collapse and only the impending danger of being caught again, kept them going. Ramirez and Javier manned the other side of the marrow gap. Javier just retrieved another gun and ammo from the fallen. Illo and John shared the other side of the gap. John knew well that Illo was hardly able to stand. But lying behind the rocks he still did well with those Kalashnikov John had liberated from that old depot on their way up here. _

_Illo looked up, only shortly. "This is a dead end, and you know it." He said, before direction his attention back downhill, where their pursuers were probably thinking about a new plan. For a hallucination he was a rather good marksman and a trifle too talkative. _

_John sighed. "Our options are limited. We need to wait for night, then we can sneak out of here and win ground, before they can catch up."_

"_One man with enough ammo could give them still enough trouble." Illo observed. "I could hold them off for another one or two hours. A good headstart."_

_John gripped Illo's shoulder hard. "No. I won't leave you behind. We will get out of here together."_

***

The puddlejumper could hardly take half of the people assembled at the clearing by the time it landed. O'Neill ordered wounded people, old ones and kids to be brought of here first. And even so, the jumper could not take all of them. Teyla stayed back with her children. She had given up her place for a pregnant woman with two small children. Jack also saw that Rodney's three companions were still there. The scientist had sat down under a thick fir tree and held the two smaller ones of them close. The older boy stood a few steps away, his eyes out into the dark, focused on the danger that might still lurk there. Jack still wondered what happened to Rodney, he had neither whined, nor complained, not otherwise bitched the whole time, and this was a worrisome anomaly with him. What had happened to the man?

Two more teams reported in. The evac was nearly done. Who had escaped the culling was safe or at one of the landing points. The Wraith were retreating already. Jack did not know how many people the culling had taken, but if it was enough for the Wraith to back off, the final toll would be too high already. "General, may I ask where you found Torren John?"

Teyla asked in subdued tones. "Hidden by his father under some rocks." Jack replied. He could well imagine what she was going through. Should the father of this small child be among those taken by the Wraith? "Hey, the area ahead of this wood had three extraction teams, there is a good chance he got out."

Teyla shook her head. "General, if Kanaan left Torren John behind, hid him away, then he was sure he could not evade capture." He voice was low, barely a whisper at these words.

Jack could hear the stoic resignation in her voice, he had seen some such before. Usually when Teal'c was dealing with something and was unwilling to admit it. It came with all those cultures that had been fighting for far too long. "Teyla listen," Jack focused on the woman, she was a strong fighter and the helplessness was getting to her, more than anything. "we still have teams out there. Some of them are trying to get your people out of the drone's claws before they can be brought off-world. Don't give up before there is no chance left."

Another jumper flew in. They could ship out most of the remaining survivors this time. O'Neill saw to it, that Rodney, the kids got into that jumper, along with those of the Athosians less likely to last through a fight. When the jumper took off, Indriedents turned to O'Neill. "The other jumper is under way too, Sir. Malmstroem and Black have arrived there, bringing in about thirty survivors from the northern settlement. Everybody is back on the way to the landing points and accounted for….except for Captain Schmiedeberg."

"Lieutenant, the next jumper will take back our own wounded men and half of the teams. We leave this landing point active and protected, while clearing out on the other." O'Neill decided. The rest of them would stay, ready to push through to the gate if necessary. Somewhere from afar he heard the light sharp sound of a sniper rifle. Things would happen soon, or they would not happen at all.

***

"_Charges are set! We're on the clock!" Avila's shout wasn't exactly necessary, Ronon knew exactly how much time his partner needed to set up seven charges. But even that call was part of their team-work. The rushing, fierce reminder that they had condemned another Wraith installation to a fiery death. They both picked up pace, racing through the long-winded corridors, constant fire on anything that moved. Their movements were a blur, exactly adjusted to each other. Ronon turned left, Avila followed the opposite direction, covering Ronon's back. Every shot a precise hit. They never stopped running, they knew the time they had, they did not need to check. The end of the tunnel came closer, Ronon tossed a grenade into the control station, the explosion was as efficient a door opener, as the key code, Avila took from the dead guard leader. Ronon grinned. "I win." Avila laughed as they raced outside, zigzagging through the dense forest, behind them rose a painful thunder, the explosion rocked the ground and a fiery blast wrecked the trees. The team did not stop, Specialists never needed to turn around and check on their work, they knew the devastation they brought. Ronon took on the Wraith guarding the ring, while Avila dialled them home. Ronon's last shot evened out their head-count for this mission._

"_I win." Ronon was grinning broadly as they stepped out of the ring of Sateda. Avila grinned back, he never begrudged Ronon his victories in their game. As a matter of fact Ronon won two out three rounds usually. Together they led the head count of all specialist teams. _

"_Specialists, report." Master Specialist Brin Shalukar had expected them. He always was there when his teams were out hunting. _

_Avila and Ronon saluted Satedan fashion, fist over their hearts. "The installation was completely destroyed." Avila replied. Technically he was the leader of the duo, but that was a formality that bothered no one inside there walls. "It was a sleeper den, from the looks of the place." The most polite way to say 'Scratch another bunch of sleeping Wraith.'_

_Brin Shalukar nodded satisfied. "Well done, both of you. Healer Palis is expecting you. Enjoy your rest." _

"_I told you you'd be back for your boy to be born." Avila sat sitting down on the healer's bench. "And you'll have even enough time off, to have a proper naming ceremony."_

_Ronon leaned against the wall. Of course Avila would think of things like a proper ceremony. It was very much like him. When they had been teamed up, everybody among the specialists had been betting when Ronon would kill Avila or when Avila would demand transfer. They had cited all the reasons they could imagine: different personality, different background, different class, different education – simply incompatible. It was true in a way. Avila was the son of one of Sateda's last noble families. Nobility might not be the ruling class any more, but they still held a lot of influence in society. Avila's education easily rivalled that of nearly anybody else in the camp and he could be arrogant as hell. Ronon was amused time and again when some poor wrench managed to get on Avila's bad side and got the 'raised eyebrow' treatment. They had been fast friends, and a team for the better part of four years. Still there were moments that were complicated. Avila had always pretended not to realise that Ronon and Melena were not bonded. He knew of course but decided to overlook the fact. Ronon knew that it was a simple act of friendship. Avila generally disapproved unbonded matches, but was willing to accept Ronon's choice of life because they were friends. But naming was a most important ceremony, one of the most important at all. _

"_Ronon? Already anxious? You will unnerve Melena that way." Avila teased him. "Or are you planning the ceremony already?"_

"_No." Ronon replied. "Melena and me had decided to keep things informal. It is not like we asked the respective persons if we are allowed to pass on their name to our son. And Melena still feels a little like trespassing on to many grounds with the thought of Kell Avila." He clapped his mouth, he had not intended to tell Avila this. It was a gross impoliteness to name a child after someone, without asking first. _

_Avila laughed gently. "I am honoured Ronon. And ceremony or no – I'll consider little Kell Avila partegeé."_

_Partegeé, under my protection, the formal acceptance of a child of the same name. A warm feeling erupted inside Ronon. His son would have somebody looking out for him, in case Ronon did not come back from the deadly hunt with the Wraith. _

_***_

The silence was worse than the shrieking of the darts, the empty area around them made Jack more nervous than the patrols of the drones. He couldn't help it, now as the woods fell deadly silent he felt uneasy. Was this how people generally felt after a culling? Listening to the silence, waiting for the next attack that would not come?

What made Jack more nervous was that Schmiedeberg had not checked in. Sure he had been the farthest out, but Jack did not like the situation one bit. Another thirty minutes he decided and they would go and search for the man. The man had not gate experience whatsoever, Jack reminded himself, he was new to all this. Everything could have gone wrong. Jack felt responsible, he had talked Schmiedeberg into this, and whatever meagre preparation the three weeks on the Daedalus offered were nothing compared to being thrown into a mission like this. He had talked the young man into this, like he had talked Sheppard into accepting the invitation to join the Atlantis mission. Sheppard, of whom they had no trace whatsoever, who had been abandoned in the middle of a foreign galaxy. Sometimes O'Neill wondered if he had done the right thing, when he had convinced Major Sheppard to sign up for Atlantis. For Jack himself the Stargate program had been a salvation, a complete start over and a discovery on a scale unimaginable. Even after ten years the thrill of discovery had not ceased, and Jack knew very well that he'd never be able to withstand it's siren song time and again. But who said that Sheppard, or Schmiedeberg for that matter, had the same priorities? Not everyone would wander the galaxy for the rest of his natural life if allowed to do so.

Jack's radio crackled. "Octavio ruft Oberst Buttler, kommen." The words sounded strained, painfully strained. Jack had understood them, and nearly jumped. If Schmiedeberg was reverting to his mothertongue and to something that sounded like old callsigns, then he must be down under deep.

"O'Neill here, come in. Schmiedeberg what's your status?" Jack hoped the young man was still free and able to hide until help could reach him.

"With twentytwo – scratch that twentyfour people on the way to landing point. Some injured badly." The voice was still strained, but he was back on English. O'Neill didn't need to guess that Schmiedeberg himself was injured. "What's your position? Assistance is on the way."

"The brook north of the gate. We are crossing it below the threefold bent."

O'Neill didn't need any more descriptions. He knew the map of the area by heart. "Assistance is on the way. Keep it slow, the Wraith are retreating." He turned to Indriedents. "The landing site is all yours." He did not wait for another protest by the Lieutenant, Jack set off with about half the team they had here to bring assistance to the last survivors of New Athos.

***

"_We have another VIP Taxi job to do." Lieutenant Colonel Jamil Khalee, CO of McMurdo base in Antarctica was in a fairly good mood. Which was rare when he had to give any of his choppers for some VIP visitor to fly around here. Which meant the visitor was either prone to flight disease and would be laughed off the base or he was among the rare individuals showing up here, that the Colonel actually respected. _

_John Sheppard knew these individuals were rare. After arriving here in Antarctica he had been known as washout, as someone who had fucked up so badly, that his career was irreparable. He had known for himself, that it was over. He had been lucky not be court- martialed. He could still hear the voice of Colonel Delaurier. "Were it not the case that two our more important allies in this endeavour see you as hero, who saved their people, I'd have you dishonourably discharged before you could say 'Aye, Sir' twice. Things being as they are you will be send to face new challenges on a base, that is in dire need of a major, and of some long-term staff." When John had arrived here, he had expected another superior officer bent on hammering him into shape, just to meet… Jamil Khalee. In his first weeks on the base he had never known what his duties today would be. Khalee had sent him to deal with nearly every aspect of the base at some time. John had at first believed this to be some expression of frustration from his new boss, but soon learned that Khalee studied his officers carefully, finding out their strengths and weaknesses this way. "Whom are we to fly around?" John asked. "Am I allowed to give him a good shakeup?" technical term for a flight that got everybody who wasn't a pilot puking. _

_Khalee grinned. "No, John. You'll fly General O'Neill to the 'Site'. And I need you on your very best behaviour. Rumour has it, that the General is building up a whole force for a new project, something big and that he's still looking for people."_

"_You want out of here?" John would understand that. Khalee didn't like the cold and darkness of Antarctica. If it needed some showing off to the General to help him out, John would gladly oblige._

"_Hell no." Khalee shook his had. "But you do. You can't stay here forever. So you'll be at your very best behaviour. Yes Sir, No, Sir, Three bags full, Sir. No wise cracks this time, John. No disagreeing. If he says he likes Antarctica, so do you. Show your very best flying too."_

_John turned up his eyes. Khalee seemed serious about this. "It won't help. And I kinda like it here." It was true, he had come to like Antarctica. Perhaps because the base took it's tone from the Colonel and as such did treated John better than he had expected when arriving here. _

_Jamil eyed him with his 'no further nonsense' gaze. "John, this is not open for discussion. You will fly the General, you will try to behave your best and ah yes, should those scientists on the base try to hold the General up for longer than 90 minutes, you will interrupt the conference, telling him, that I was radioing in because of some situation we have over here. The General hates to sit in science conferences for longer than necessary, so saving him will score some bonus too." _

_John obliged, as far as possible, but he did not slime his way to the General's good graces, he did not see the point anyway. But he got a chance to show his best flying, certainly. The accident with the chair was something from a nightmare, another hallucination of a mad kind. Only it wasn't. And before he was back in McMurdo Sheppard had agreed to join an expedition to another galaxy. _

_Things were like a very odd dream until the last day. The others went to say goodbye to their families and loved ones. John even tried to ring his father, to tell him that he got his career back on track. Not because he cared for his career any more, but because his father cared. Mr. Cold-war-colonel John Eric Sheppard had been sorely disappointed in the failure of his son. He had tried to ring him, to talk to him but his father had hung up before John could say much more than "Hallo." _

_So John had just sat outside, on a beautiful spot and tried to say goodbye in his heart. He had even wished Illo were still a phantom, and he could try to conjure him up to have someone to talk. But the man whom he had seen last unconscious in a field hospital, was very much real. In those hours, while John sat there and watched the sun go down, he wished he had somebody, anybody to talk to, but there was no one. So John's goodbye to Earth was a silent one. _

_***_

The people O'Neill found making a desperate trek through the woods were in a bad shape. Some of the men were injured, barely able to walk, many of them suffered from minor injuries too and some had clearly been a little bit too close to the blast when the rocks went up. Counting the group silently with his eyes he recognised Kanaan, who was supporting a badly injured old man. "Your wife will be overjoyed to see you." The marines were already helping the people worst off. "Where did you leave the Captain?"

"He is here, Sir!" Schmiedeberg had clearly been covering the retreat of the small caravan. He limped towards O'Neill. A bloody gash across his face made him look like freshly escaped from hell. "The next time you think you can pull a dumb-assed one man stunt…" O'Neill said sharply. He was glad the man had survived the stunt he pulled. If this was his usual level than he might even be the right material for SG work.

"Aye, Sir! Understood, Sir."

The way through the woods back to the jumper was slow but as there were no more Wraith around, they did not need to hurry. Eventually they reached the waiting jumper and guided the exhausted people in. The jumper took off and headed towards the gate. O'Neill had left his seat to an injured young woman and opted for a place on the ground, like the other soldiers did. He eyes Schmiedberg, who cleaned his face of the blood. "So, 'Octavio' – that was your call-sign? 'Oberst Buttler is General von Aue, I take it?"

"No, Sir. Oberst Buttler is someone else, and 'Octavio' is the call sign for anybody in need of immediate assistance." Schmiedeberg replied. "I am sorry, Sir. It will not happen again."

Jack grinned. "You know, while I was stationed over there, we were close to one of your people's bases. And one particular General was bent of showing me and some other some European culture, dragging us to the theatre now and then. Most of it was… somewhat old-fashioned, very much old-fashioned. What I mean is – I know the play you stole the names from. If you are not Octavio – I hope you are not Max."

Schmiedeberg couldn't help but chuckle. "Certainly not, Sir. But you are right the bulk of our code names came from that play."

"So – what was yours?"

Dietmar looked up. "Codename is Illo, Sir."

The jumper docked in the jumper bay and a medical team stood already there to take care of the wounded. The next level was used to take care of the Athosians right now. Searching for those whose families had survived, eagerly they expected every other batch of people coming up. Nurses were there, tending to minor injuries. O'Neill saw Teyla embracing Kanaan. A family saved from being ripped apart. If something made sense in all this madness, than it was this. That's why they had gone out there, sneaking around the Wraith.

While walking through this level, O'Neill heard the first report about how many they had saved, how many people injured and other things. Assigning Quarters was already being done, the medical team had the worst cases already treated. Things were winding down fast and efficiently. The personnel of the base was used to handle such situations.

A small sniffle made O'Neill stopped. At a corner, a little separate from the other Athosians he saw the kids he had seen with Rodney. The older boy – teen more likely – was holding the two smaller kids, both of them were crying. "Just let it go, Vali. It helps. I know." The teen spoke softly to the crying girl. "will… will they come back?"

O'Neill closed his eyes, the teary question of the little girl, told him all he needed to know. Those children's parents had not made it.

"No, they went on a long, long journey and you can't wait for them to return. One day you'll meet again, but in a place and time beyond what you know now."

"Are they….are they like your father….Athalwyn?" The little boy tried hard not to cry, but he had not much success.

Athalwyn's voice went hoarse. "Sure. They will watch over you, just like me father did for me."

Jack looked around. Rodney was probably still in the infirmary, or maybe elsewhere. Jack walked over to the three. They would need a place to sleep, to calm down at first and then someone to take care of them, later on. "Athalwyn?" Jack hoped he had gotten that name right, he probably did. Years around Daniel did this to a man. "We have some quarters ready, where you can get some rest."

Athalwyn rose, lifting up his little sister. Jack helped with the second kid. Seeing those kids, their family taken, frightened and distraught, Jack wondered if it was possible to hate the Wraith more than the Goa'uld.

***

_There is a movement in the darkness now, John can see it clearly. Not like the wings swishing around in the blackness. The movement is somehow familiar to John, there is something he knows, or knew a long time ago. And then he hears it, words echoing from the darkness. "When you fall into the tunnel, follow the light." And John sees it, it is a light, burning bright, blazing in a rage that he forgotten existed. He stumbles, falls the darkness shatters, as John falls down, to the fires of burning Sateda. _


	11. Chapter 11: Until the darkness dies

_Disclaimer: I do not own the characters, names or other various parts of the SG/SGA universe and all rights are with their respective owners. This is a work of non-profit fanfiction, and no copyright infringement is intended._

_Author's note: Turning point chapters are always tricky, and this one prove particularly hard to write. I am not really sure if it conveys all the things I wanted to get in here, but there it is._

**Chapter 11: Until the darkness dies**

_This is my window,_

_And I just woke up,_

_Feeling adrift and afloat._

_Where ends my life?_

_And where begins the night?_

_(R.M. Rilke)_

Rodney McKay was not sure what he had expected but being hugged by Zelenka, and being welcomed by all the science staff like a hero was certainly somewhat embarrassing. All of them seemed genuinely happy to have him back here. Rodney was not sure if he himself was ready for this, it seemed overwhelming. Atlantis had changed in the year he had been away, and still it was the same. It was a little odd to see General O'Neill in command of Atlantis, but at least Atlantis had a competent leader once again.

Rodney straightened up when he walked into O'Neill's office. The room had been occupied by different persons, during the last years and changed with them. Elisabeth Weir's office had been warm, welcoming and had reminded him of a study at times. Carter's office had been functional, littered with scientific notes and clearly reminiscent of her workspace at the SGC. With Woolsey the room had been a hard to define something, that had made Rodney antsy at times. With O'Neill the room again reverted to a more chaotic version of a command centre. "McKay, come in! Settling in well?" Jack O'Neill gestured Rodney to sit down on one of the chairs.

"Thank you, Sir." Rodney sat down. "Your help during the attack way more than a live-saver. It saved the whole Athosian community."

"Not all of them."

Rodney nodded. "I know. But it saved them from being wiped out by the Wraith," he reminded the General. The loss of those taken would be felt, but the Athosians would survive. Rodney bit his lip. Merean had been taken too. "On a more personal note, I wanted to thank you, General for looking out for Cylin, Vali and Athalwyn the night after we arrived here."

"Those kids went through a rough time, the two small ones especially. Their brother seemed already…" O'Neill didn't find the right words. Cold didn't fit, and hardened sounded like a criminal.

Rodney understood what O'Neill tried to convey. "That he is. When they found him by the gate ten months ago, they believed him to be a runner, by the way he reacted." Rodney chuckled. "Give him some years to grow fully into a man and he'll give Ronon a run for his money."

O'Neill nodded. "Ronon, your runner comrade. Where do we find him?" he asked. It was time to get this search rolling.

"Sorry, can't help you. Ask Teyla." Rodney leaned back, arms in front of his chest, staring at Jack stubbornly.

"Oh c'me on, McKay! Do I look like Woolsey and the IOA? I'd be offended if you say yes."

Rodney shook his head. "I can't General. Only four people know how to get in contact with Ronon, and of them Teyla is the boss. If she decides to trust you, ok. Otherwise I can not help you."

"McKay, we have a good man out there, a man we need to bring home." Jack had risen and walked over to Rodney. "He'd deserve…"

"What he didn't deserve was being abandoned like that." Rodney shot back. He knew it was a cheap shot. O'Neill had not been the one to make that call, but it felt good to vent his anger. "And don't tell me it was all Woolsey's doing. When John took mercy on Sumner he had to live it down with two inquiries and a lot of questions asked. When we lost John, nobody from the air force cared enough to ask questions. Had Ronon not gone after him, we might not have the faintest idea what happened to him." Rodney rose from his seat. "I am sorry, General. But I can't help you."

***

John woke disorientated, in his dreams he still heard the shrieks of the darts high up in the air over Sateda. Everything around him seemed sharper, the colours more intense, in spite of the fact that this room was dark. He sat up, his body was shaking. "Easy here, you have been through a lot." A familiar voice said.

To say John was shocked to see Ronon right beside him, was a gross understatement. He seriously wondered if he was dreaming still. "Ronon – how…" it was not possible, not with the transmitter and what the Wraith had done. But it was Ronon, right in front of him, alive and well.

"It's a long story." Ronon said. "And you need to take it slow. You have been through a lot."

The words didn't really register with John. His worries were still about the effects his tracking device would have on Ronon's transmitter. Perhaps it was not distance but time that effected the device? If so Ronon had to leave at once.

"Stop that. My transmitter was removed when I left Atlantis." Ronon said. "And I won't go anywhere." Suddenly he stopped, staring at John.

John stared at him. "I didn't say a word," he said. "you read my mind!" he added a little more annoyed.

Ronon rubbed his temples. "We need to ask Jir, once he is back. He'll know why the mindlink didn't dissolve." He murmured.

"Mindlink?" Sheppard felt like he was in a dream still. But then… he had dreamed about Sateda, about things he had never seen or experienced. "and who is Jir?" He had never felt so stupid and less informed since his exams in High school.

"Jir is a… a friend, another runner. He linked our minds so we could draw you out… out of the nest again. He said it should dissolve naturally after we woke up." Ronon explained. He looked around. Jircanor was probably out, checking the area, perhaps finding some food or other useful provisions.

"Food would be a good idea." John said, before he scowled. "Damn it, you just thought Jircanor was going to get food, right?"

Ronon nodded mutely. It took not much to feel the chaos in John's mind, the feeling of being adrift in a surrealistic dream. Ronon sighed inwardly. It had been a long time that he had found talking to somebody easy. And even then, his friends had talked more than he. But silence would not help here.

"You don't need to, if you don't want to, you know." John said slowly. Stopping when he realised that he had read Ronon again. "sorry. Can't stop doing that."

"Me too." Ronon could not shut out Sheppard's thoughts too. He was relieved to hear steps coming up the stairs. It was Jircanor's steps, he knew them. Jircanor walked in, a bundle thrown over his shoulders. "Look, who is awake again. Welcome back to the world of the living."

"Thanks, I think." John knew he was grouchy, but his head began hurting and it felt weird to read Ronon's mind all the time.

"Jir, something went wrong." Ronon began, but he saw Jir frown and scrutinizing both of them.

"You are still linked." Jircanor exclaimed. "The link is still there. How did this happen?"

"We kind of hoped you'd know." John managed eventually to sit in a somewhat more comfortable way. "We woke up and our minds were still taking peeks to the other side."

Jircanor raised his hand, stretching it out towards them, like he tried to feel something invisible in the air. After a moment he withdrew the hand hastily. "That was definitely unfriendly." He said to himself.

"So what?"

"It will take time to break up the link." Jircanor said to them. "I can mute it for a while, so you both keep a clear head. But for breaking it up, I'll need more time." He rubbed his temples and winced. "Right now your minds are not linked but… more like meshed. It will take time to break it down and separate you two." He sat down opposite of them, both hand raised, his gaze intently focused on them.

To John it felt like a cool wind brushing his mind, numbing the over sensitivity, helping him to calm down. Yet the sudden silence left him with a pang of loneliness, the sad feeling of loosing something he could not really define. "It will always feel like that," Jircanor said softly. "if a link is disrupted by force, or death, then the pain will stay with you until the day you die. That's the main reason we have to be careful when we disentangle your minds."

John nodded. "Thank you. For all the help."

"Think nothing of it."

The food Jircanor had found was mixture of freshly hunted wildlife, some edible plants and some other food conserved in statis-storage somewhere below the city. When he began eating John realised how hungry he was. While he was eating he studied his two companion silently. Ronon looked again much like the runner he had met more than five years ago. The thought that his friend had left behind whatever home he had found in Atlantis to chase after him, was one that unsettled John more than a little. He had hoped to keep his friends safe by staying away, especially after the disaster with Shelleau.

The other runner was harder to read. He was as relaxed as a runner could be in company of others, and even as he did not look it, John somehow knew that the man was older than Ronon or himself. "So you are a runner too?" He asked after a while. It was dumb question really, but there was no witty way to ask a man if he spend his life on the constant run from the Wraith.

"As are you." Jircanor put aside bottle of water. "How are your eyes feeling?"

John blinked. "Good, actually. The colours are a little more intense and the shadows more defined, but that could be the light in here."

Jircanor took up a small item and a tiny beam of green light hit John's face, he winced and turned away. Jircanor deactivated it again at once. "Your eyes are still shadowed, or you wouldn't react to a weak light that strongly." He said. "it could take a while for your eyes to readjust."

"Hey, I know that kind of flashlight!" John pointed to small lightstick. "I have one too, I found it on…"

"You found it the night you decided to use my den for a camp." Jircanor said dryly. "I guessed you had found it."

That first night in the hole in the ground came back to John's mind. How strange had it felt then, to camp in a cave in the earth, back then he had no idea what lay ahead of him. And he remembered waking in the night, shaken up by something he could not define. "It was you! You sneaked up to me."

"Right again. You didn't realise I was there until you left." Jircanor shrugged. "When you made your way to the ruins I considered talking to you right away. But decided to let you go for the time being."

Ronon arched an eyebrow. "That's a big compliment, John. He must have judged you as capable as one who has been running for one or two years and lived to tell the tale."

Irritated John looked from one to the other. "I don't get it, I always believed runners stayed alone. Ronon you said you had been alone for seven years."

"I said I had not much choice." Ronon corrected him. "And occasionally meeting another runner, and knowing the safe places, the network of dead worlds, doesn't mean you are less lonely. I never felt more alone than the moment I parted ways with another runner."

"It's the same for all of us, and always will be." Jircanor focused on John. "We never approach other runners when they are fresh and untested. Most runners do not last long, some months and then the Wraith get them. Those who last a year or more are likely to hold out for some time, they have escaped all the regular Wraith traps and hunts. They are resourceful."

"When we found the tracking device and used it, to find Ronon on Sateda, we saw seven more Runners on it. So there are five more out there?"

"What you saw were the Runners being hunted by the same hive." Ronon interjected. "Every hive uses another frequency for it's trackers, thus they do not go for a prey that belongs to another hive. Usually at least. Still most hives are aware of runners, can see their signals and go for places where a runner stays too long, even if it is a foreign runner."

John's mind did the maths faster than he could really understand it. "But…that means there could be many more runners out there."

"As I said, many do not last long." Jircanor took up the explanation. "Then there are those who think they can defy the Wraith and stay in one place for too long. Some even try to stay in one place and fight it out. Those die, or we kill them, when we find them first, before they can bring the Wraith down on people. Add to them all those who take their own life to escape the hunt or simply go mad – runners who last are rare individuals. But there are some, out there, wandering the galaxy."

"But why?" John asked. "why trying to know the others? You still can't stay anywhere, you still can't help each other. What's the sense in it?" His eyes sought Ronon's. "and why did you never say a word?"

Ronon sighed. "John, when Cayelan met me, and shared all this knowledge with me, I gave my word never to reveal the secret. The Wraith want it, they want it more than they might want an individual runner. Only two years later Cayelan's luck run out and they got him." Ronon hesitated to speak on, staring into the faint light of the glowlamp. "he died without betraying the secret." He eventually said.

John understood. Breaking a word once it was given was bad, but making someone else break their word, was even worse. "I understand, Ronon. I would probably have done the same." He turned to Jircanor. "You better don't tell me."

"Why?"

John leaned back. "First of all, I have not always been able to keep the information I was supposed to keep. The replicators managed to get into my mind, I have been tricked into revealing information before and… let's just say I know that I have a breaking point, that I wouldn't put to test."

Ronon stared at him startled. "I don't believe it, you are one of the strongest men I know."

John shook his had. "Every man has a breaking point, Ronon, and I know mine. And there is something else – faint as the chance might be to return to Atlantis. I still have loyalties there…"

Jircanor stood up. "You still don't get it, don't you? You are a Runner. No society, not even those who can remove trackers, take back runners. Because runners change, because runners can't turn down their reflexes, because runners are not trusted by many."

Ronon jumped to his feet. "Stop it, Jir. Atlantis is not like other people out here, they took me in. And the moment Teyla or Zelenka gives me the go, we can bring John back home."

Jircanor turned up his eyes. "Lanteans. But if you say so." He sat down again.

"it is okay, really it is." John said into the lasting silence. "I always wondered why people here never tried to do something about the runners. They just let the Wraith get away with it. Whatever secret you are guarding, it is probably too important for all of you."

Jircanor nodded. "I can not tell you any details, no gate addresses or codes, but I can give you the general scope. And be it only for you to understand and help your people understand when you return to them. There have been runners ever since the Wraith began their great war, and no matter of what race, what nation, whatever faction in this war, there was always one characteristic most runners shared. And throughout centuries, through countless generations we have helped each other, looked out for each other, shared the knowledge of weapons, traps, hideouts and safe places among us. We found a way of leaving messages only a runner could understand, and eventually among those who lasted on the great hunt, we shared the secret of the dead worlds. There are worlds in this galaxy, fallen or destroyed such a long time ago, that none one remembers them, some even fell before the Lanteans fled. A part of those worlds, some of them, are removed from the general network of the rings, usually by a code, so they can't be accessed without the proper knowledge. We call them dead worlds or the dark space, because the last light of life were crushed there a long time ago. Those places have more than once provided shelter, equipment or otherwise help for us, we retreat to them when the hunt comes too close, when we are too injured to fight on. "

"That's why the DHD wasn't working! Because I didn't enter the code." John suddenly understood why the dialling process had been so long. "You know how to rig a DHD?" he asked Jircanor. Usually when Rodney claimed to be able to change something on a DHD, John was short of threatening him with lemons, big lemons.

"I do." Jiranor nodded. He suddenly frowned, then rose. Without a word he turned and went down the stairs.

"Someone coming?" All fighting reflexes kicking in again John drew his gun. Even as he did not hear anything, it did not mean there was nothing there.

Ronon got to his feet. "I'll check it out." He hastened down the stairs too. There was no one outside, only the wind singing between the ruins, whirling sand and leaves about. It took Ronon only moments to find Jircanor, leaning against a half collapsed wall, rubbing his temples. "What happened?" he asked in low tones.

"Something I should have anticipated." Jircanor said. "Your friend is… is of the true blood, did you know?"

"No. He has this ATA gene…" Ronon did not speak on. "I forgot your people and the Lanteans…. It is the compulsion isn't it? I already wondered why you were telling him about the dead worlds."

Jir straightened again, took a deep breath. "It is. I never thought it would be that strong, I always believed the compulsion was kind of an excuse out our ancestors."

"How bad will it get?" Ronon asked practically. He had heard of the compulsion, but never seen somebody directly subjected to it. It was something that came up in stories, in the old stories of the Ancestors, and the great wars.

"I can keep it in check." Jir said. "But I'll have to be careful. It took only an indirect question to trigger it full strength."

"Perhaps we should warn John." Ronon said after a moment. "it might make things easier, if he knows to be careful."

"No!" Jircandor said forcefully. "I can handle it. Alone. It will be only a few days anyway, then we leave to our separate ways and perhaps will never meet again. End of story and end of problem."

"Not if all Cayelan told me about the compulsion was true."

"I CAN handle it." Jir repeated. "Go up and take care of your friend, Ronon. I'll take a look around, check the area."

The silence told John that there was no enemy in close proximity long before Ronon came back. Trying to stand was still a hazard, and John had decided to save his strength for the moment he would need it again to run. He sat down again, trying to sort through all the impressions, it was too much to take in. Not all the stuff Jircanor had told him, it had only half registered with him, there were the dreams, those dreams he had, that were still lurking somewhere in this mind. His own nightmares, reawakened to a frighteningly real state, and Ronon's… he still had to try hard to somehow handle the raw emotions of those. Not only had Ronon lost his wife on Sateda, but also his son, his friends… his whole world. John had never claimed he could actually understand what it must mean, much as he had tried to emphasize with his friend, but now he knew how it felt, and he wasn't sure if he could handle it. "Don't dwell on it."

Ronon's gruff voice brought Sheppard out of his musings. Ronon was sitting directly in front of him, staring at him. "You won't change it, by letting yourself getting hurt by those memories."

John blinked, Ronon wasn't just worried. He had accepted the pain. _"The pain will be with you for a long time. Accept it, treasure it. As long as you feel the pain, you have not lost yourself. As long as you feel the pain, you will remember. The dead are only lost when we forget them." _The voice rang painfully clear in John's head, he didn't know who had said this to Ronon, but he knew Ronon had thought of it. He tried to keep his mind calm, somehow and focus on the speaking. "Ronon, I…" he just wanted to say thank you, thanking Ronon for coming after him, for not giving up on him, for getting him out of that dark place, but the words, like so many times before failed him. He found himself unable to put into words what he felt.

"Yeah, don't make much of it, you would have done the same for me." Ronon had guessed what Sheppard tried to say.

A brilliant idea sprang up in John's mind. Perhaps this one time, it was not necessary to wrestle with words, that would only sound awkward and stupid. This one time, he did not need them. He focused on his friend and tried to convey all what he wanted to say in his thoughts.

***

Night over Atlantis, the lights shone out far into the darkness, making Atlantis a glittering jewel on the dark waters. Teyla slowly walked along the eastern pier, her eyes on the dark waters of the sea. The events of those last days had left her tired, but she found herself unable to rest. It was not the shock of the culling, not the fear for loosing Kanaan or little Torren John, it was something else that unsettled her.

Teyla had been raised never to judge quickly or lightly, in all her life she had studied people first before she judged them. She often had seen changes in others, for good or bad, and sometimes changed her opinion of them along the way. Now she found herself having judged too quickly. She had been sure her distrust in General O'Neill was very much justified, and that his henchman was another puppet of the IOA. Now she wondered if she had been too harsh, too eager to distrust, too quick in seeing what she wanted to see.

All her life Teyla had been honest with herself. And while she walked along the pier, listening to the waves singing their eternal song, she examined her decisions of the last some days. Like in meditation, she took a step back and watched from the outside, what had transpired. What she saw startled her. She had reacted like Woolsey would have – ready to distrust, eager to cast blame and passing judgement quickly.

Teyla stopped, staring out on the dark waters. Determination rose in her. She would not give Woolsey the final victory by making herself into something that she was not. She would not let Woolsey win in the end, by letting fear and distrust disrupt Atlantis. She owed it to John, who was somewhere out there in the darkness. Teyla raised her hand, like she could touch the stars. "Do not fear, John," she whispered into the cold night air. "There is a light, at the end of every dark journey." Her eyes went up, to the familiar constellations in the night sky. She could not even begin to guess where John was this night, but somewhere, deep down in her heart she knew he was alive. Now it was up to them, to bring him home.


	12. Chapter 12: The mission before us

Disclaimer: I do not own the characters, names or other various parts of the SG/SGA universe and all rights are with their respective owners. This is a work of non-profit fanfiction, and no copyright infringement is intended.

**Chapter 12: The mission before us**

_Wise men said: just walk this way,_

_to the dawn of the light._

_The Wind will blow into your face,_

_As the years pass you by._

_Hear this voice, from deep inside;_

_It's the call of your heart,_

_Close your eyes and you will find,_

_The way out of the dark._

_(The Scorpions: Land of the Morning Star)_

_They had been ambushed, separated and overwhelmed by sheer numbers whatever resistance they had been able to mount proved too weak, to withstand those forces. The Wraith had been more efficient and dangerous than all those he had seen before. But this thought was useless now. Thrown into one of their cells, Ronon silently studied those fighters that were assembled here. Harki, Ana and Heri were among them, as were many others. Avila wasn't here, as was Shalukar. Inwardly Ronon cursed, they had acted on information that must have been faked! Shalukar had been doubtful from the beginning, but Ronon knew the Master Specialist had been overruled by Headquarters. But still, as long as he was out there and free things were not lost. The doors opened and another man was thrown in to them. It was Kari, who came to his feet cursing. "Calm, Kari." Ronon turned to the wounded man. That meant team chrál had not made it either. "You alone?"_

"_No, he isn't." A voice cut in. "I fear I must inform you, that all your people have been caught." More Wraith were filing in, a group of them dragging another prisoner, holding him down. Even on his knees, the prisoner struggled against them. Ronon did not meet Avila's eyes, he had hoped that at least his friend might get away. But perhaps he had bought the time for Shalukar. If the Master Specialist made it back to Sateda, then there would be reinforcements…_

_Two Wraith dragged a lifeless figure in, tossing it to the ground carelessly. Ronon froze, when he recognised Shalukar. "He is not dead – yet. He is alive, barely." The voice spoke again, and this time the speaker walked into the cell. _

_He was tall as all Wraith were, but he looked different, more human, but deep down in his soul Ronon felt an icy cold emanating from him. A legend, a nightmarish legend, had just stepped out of the shadows and taken on an eerie life. "He fought well, but he won't last until nightfall." The Wraith Lord went on. _

_Ronon straightened up and growled. "What do you want?" he barked at the Wraith leader. There had to be reason why they were still here and not stored away in cocoons for a late dinner. _

"_The question is – what do you have to offer, Specialist Dex?" The Wraith studied him intently. "You leader will not survive without help and your friend… he is not much, but not much is better than nothing, don't you think?" _

_Avila raised his chin, casting a defiant glance at the Wraith leader. Ronon's heart sank, he knew where this was going… he knew what deal was offered, stories of such deals had been told and retold all along the fighting worlds for centuries. But he had never believed he might one day be the one to cut that deal…_

John Sheppard woke with a start, his head still pounding, his heart racing. It was a dream… a dream only, not real. Still, it had been frighteningly real, and so surreal all the same.

"Another nightmare?" Jircanor, who was on watch, had heard him wake up.

John nodded in the darkness. "Yeah." He whispered. "Another one… I do not know, what Ronon did with this Wraith thing…this Wraith leader." He looked around, but his friend wasn't here, he was out for another nightly hunt.

Jircanor checked the stairs, before walking over to John, squating down beside John. "Don't judge Ronon for whatever you saw in that dream. Others too have been in that situation – knowing the price they would ultimately pay."

John took a deep breath, calming down. "Not judging… but Ronon was… was marshalling all his courage for something he deeply feared."

Jir nodded, a movement hardly to be seen in the dark. "Who was not afraid, when facing this, for the first time?" he said in low tones, speaking to himself. Focusing again on Sheppard. "Would you die to protect your friends? Suffer?"

John nodded silently.

"And if not your death could safe your friends, but something most feared and reviled in the known worlds?" Jir asked softly. "Sometimes it is the only choice there is. Ronon made that call once, and he saved a lot of lives that day. I made the same choice a long time ago." Jir rose suddenly, frowning into the darkness. "I thought I heard something."

Both listened into the darkness, but there was nothing, only silence all around them. John relaxed after a while. "Tomorrow we need to try something with this link." He said. He felt terrible, having peeked into Ronon's past again, into things that Ronon might not feel comfortable to share.

***

When Teyla reached General O'Neill's office in the morning she found him in a discussion with the new Captain. Teyla walked closer, as the door was open.

"…I think it is safe to conclude, that the Wraith did not realise what was going on, until the end. That's the gist of it." The Captain finished a report or analysis.

"And you couldn't have put this 'gist' in a little shorter form?" O'Neill sounded a little cranky. "your mission report has about 50 pages."

"43, Sir."

"43…" Teyla was sure that O'Neill wasn't half as serious as he pretended to be. She stepped into the door and knocked on frame.

Both men turned around to face her. "Teyla, come in." O'Neil gestured her to enter. "Is everything all right with your people?"

Teyla followed the invitation "Yes, thanks to you they are safe." It would take time to heal and grief for those lost in the culling. But her people had survived thing like this time and again. Seeing the strength her people had, facing this new adversity filled Teyla with pride. O'Neill had already gestured the Captain to leave. Teyla raised her hand, stopping the man from leaving. "Actually, I came here for a different reason. It is about the search for John Sheppard. I understand, that you intend to take it up again?".

"Not want – will." O'Neill replied. "We don't leave people behind, well --- we might make an exception for Woolsey next time." He stopped, focusing his gaze on her. "Let me make this clear: Woolsey screwed this one up, big time. But this doesn't mean that everybody else has given up on Sheppard."

Teyla nodded, she could see that he meant what he said, he might be cranky, ironic and …odd, but he was sincere. "When we heard last from Ronon, he had caught up on the trail enough, that he had an address John Sheppard had gone to only ten days prior. He had high hopes to find him soon."

"Whoa, whoa, whoa." O'Neill raised his hand. "could we start at the beginning? Woolsey's notes on the topic were… had an accident." He gestured the Captain to stay. "Schmiedeberg, make notes of the important points – mind, important only."

Teyla sat down and began to tell them of the message, of Ronon escaping Atlantis. "He did not meet his contact," she went on. "he was too late. So he tried to track the man down, somewhere in the middle of this he came across a trace of John himself, he had been seen fighting the Wraith during the culling on Anchoril. Ever since Ronon has been following John's tracks. But John is moving fast, often showing up in fights with the Wraith. Had Ronon not been a runner, he would have been unable to keep up the pace."

"Has anybody found out, why Sheppard is moving so fast?" O'Neill asked. "Has he ever tried to contact Atlantis?"

"Not since the disaster with Shelleau." Teyla replied. "And as for the other – I believe he decided to fight the Wraith on his own, when Atlantis let him down." Seeing the questioning glances of both men she began to sum up what she had learned from Ronon's reports over the last year.

O'Neill listened attentively, sometimes interrupted her for a question, to clarify a fact. "He is getting around a lot, and he is giving the Wraith hell, that's for sure. But it still sounds…" O'Neill interrupted himself, whatever conclusions he had, he kept to himself at the moment. "Schmiedeberg, any insights?"

Teyla's eyes turned to the man, who had been taking notes during most of the conversation. "Did Ronon ever mentions signs or traces of a pursuer?" he asked.

"He didn't mention anything." Teyla said. "Why?"

"Because… some of this resembles Jerry's… Sheppard's MO when running – extreme version. It looks to me like he has somebody chasing after him. Could he have escaped after being captured and been on the run ever since?"

Teyla paled, when the words hit her. The Captain would not even be aware of it, but he had just stated the truth, a truth that fit all the facts she had and it fit all too well. "You are right," she said in a very low voice. "He is running – the Wraith… they must have turned him into a Runner."

"A Runner? Like your friend Ronon was?" O'Neill didn't seem all that shocked. "So we'll need Beckett on standby to perform the surgery the moment we have located Sheppard."

"You can't find a Runner, General O'Neill." Teyla found her mind and her mouth were working still, despite her mind was cringing, imagining what John must have gone through already.

"All the more reason to get hold of your friend, Ronon."

"Ronon regularly checks in with a friend of mine, a blacksmith who lives on Belkan." Teyla replied. "I had planned to visit him soon, together with Major Lorne."

"You'll have to make do with me or the Captain here." O'Neill said. "Lorne will need weeks to recover and we'll be lucky to get him back next time we dial Earth."

***

"Your mind is empty except for one single light, one single light shining through the empty darkness, let it closer, draw it in, feel the light, your are the light. One single flame shining into the night…" Jircanor's voice broke off abruptly when an invisible force hit him, slamming him into the next wall. The Runner winced as he struggled back to his feet.

John opened his eyes, this was the third attempt to break the link and he had really tried to learn what Jir called the "meditation of solitude." But this just surpassed all other problems they had into so far. "What was that?" Aside form the obvious of course, John had not the faintest idea what had pushed Jircanor back and crashed him against wall.

"You, your mind protecting the link and in a way protecting Ronon." Jircanor rubbed his neck as he sat down again. "The reaction came faster and was much more violent than I had anticipated."

Sheppard frowned. "Me? No way. Don't get me wrong, Jir, but I usually can't move objects by force of will alone. The last time Rodney did it he was half way up to Ascension."

Jircanor scowled. "There is no need for touching another plane of existence to develop some abilities. And you – you are of the true blood after all. Your abilities are raw, as you are basically untrained, but the potential is still there. I should have expected it."

John didn't know what to say. He had envied Rodney for the superpowers the Ancient's machine had bestowed on him. But that had been before he learned that the same process put Rodney on the fast track to Ascension. "You mean I could learn to do… - stuff, without being forced to ascend?" he asked after a while.

"Ascension was a goal of the Lanteans, it was not tied to their powers, or at least not tied to their natural powers." Jircanor explained, adjusting the light of one of the glowlamps back to normal levels. "And even they had to use some level of genetic manipulation to achieve Ascension ultimately. Training your natural abilities would not force you down the same road."

"I always thought that advanced evolution was headed there – Ascension I mean." Ronon said, disentangling his long legs and sitting relaxed again.

"Not really, the Lanteans had abilities, powers you might call them, they were part of their natural evolution and they lived with those powers comfortably without ascending for centuries. Much as other nations did. They MADE Ascension their goal, striving to reach that stage of development that is necessary for it. It wasn't a natural process and had next to nothing to do with their natural powers."

"Sounds like you are not sold on the whole Ascension thing." John observed quietly.

All of sudden Jircanor grew rather defensive. "It's just…. I believe we have a responsibility here. We did not come into this world, to this place, just to flee it. It might be hard, it might be cruel and definitely is painful at times, but it is our place and our home."

John did not know what he had done or said, to provoke this reaction. Something had caused Jircanor to go defensive. "I am not keen on the whole Ascension thing either. Too many rules, too many vague details," he replied. He focused on the dark haired runner. "You seem to know what you are talking about, and you have powers of your own, could you teach me?" He saw Jircanor stiffen, before the man relaxed again.

"It won't be easy, not with the Wraith on our tracks, Runner groups are known to be vulnerable. Still… it is doable. I'll teach you what I can."

Ronon rose from his sitting position. "Jir, could I have a word with you?"

Ronon and Jircanor walked down the stairs of the tower and left the building. It was noon outside. Jircanor sat down on a piece of rubble, exhaling sharply.

Ronon nodded. "I thought as much," he said gruffly. "You are not 'handling' it very well. And you just agreed to stay with us, when we leave this place."

"I know." Jircanor shook his head. "It get's harder and harder no matter how much I fight."

"Perhaps we should tell John." Ronon suggested again. "If he were aware of the effect his presence has on you, he'd be more careful. He might even find a way to make this easier for you."

"NO!" Jircanor straightened up. "No," he repeated more quietly. "In some days things will have progressed too far, anyway. There is no need for him to know any more."

Ronon could hear a terrible resignation in Jircanor's voice and had to try hard not be shocked. Nothing life could throw at him, not the destruction of his home world, no Wraith, not the death of his best friends, simply nothing ever had driven Jircanor so far as just to give in. "Why? Why do you give up?" he asked, trying to understand.

Jir sighed, running his hand through his long hair, tiredly. "Ronon, the compulsion was designed to keep my people in line after we lost the war against the Lanteans. It was not even meant as a deliberate cruelty, the Lanteans just did not wish to worry about us turning on them, and they were well aware we were good at backstabbing if need be. The compulsion was an elegant way to guarantee our ancestor's loyalties, it is part of our genetic memory still and it can't be fought. Some days ago I could have refused to answer a direct question asked by your friend, but not disobeyed a direct order. Now, I could evade a question still, but would not refuse the answer if he insisted. That's the hardest thing about the compulsion: it doesn't force you but is makes you want to comply, and after a while you can't tell anymore what is the compulsion and what it is you wanted yourself. Right now, I see how it works clearly: I start to like your friend, liking his company, no matter how much I try not to. And in some more days, a week or so, I'll probably deny the compulsion had anything to do with my decision and claim it was my own idea from the beginning. And I'll probably like it. So there is no way to tell your friend something he cannot change."

"Wait, I always believed the compulsion was something that prevented your people from going against the Lanteans again." Ronon said. "But… it is an emotional coding?"

"Far more complex." Jircanor took a deep breath. "When the long war ended, the Lanteans knew that my ancestors would recover and wait for the right time to strike again. We were an aggressive race after all. Some among them argued that allowing our continued existence as a nation would endanger the worlds they 'seeded' all over the galaxy. Other Lanteans believed that it was their obligation to change us, for the better as they termed it. They devised the compulsion in the first place. An elegant weapon, I must admit. It didn't take our intelligence, or our own will and opinions, but it shifted our feelings towards the Lanteans around. Short meetings would do nothing seriously, just that we usually tend to feel sympathetic towards Lanteans we might meet. But longer contact… the longer the contact, the deeper the change, the stronger the loyalty we begin to feel."

"You mean in a week or so, you'll start to see John as a friend, perhaps really become friends with him and you don't have any choice about it?"

"At that time I'll probably claim it was my own decision and not believe you otherwise." Jircanor said. "It has happened among my people back then. That's why I believed the compulsion to be an excuse of our ancestors who wanted to follow the Lanteans."

"But John only has the ATA gene…"

"He is of the true blood, there is no doubt about it. He carries their blood, their legacy. Send him over to Myravin and he'll be hailed Tamarkhan reborn, send him to Valdoran and he'll have one of the most feared armies in that part of the world , swear allegiance to him. He **is** of the true blood, and as others in this world, I can't deny the loyalties of my ancestors, no matter what." Jircanor stood up, shoving aside all the discussions. "Our transmitters will go active again in two days time, until then we need to find a way to deal with the link and we need a plan. Runner groups have always been vulnerable."

***

Teyla had to stop and let another cart pass by, the donkey did not seem in the mood for a stop. Mud splashed on her boots, when the cart rolled through one of the many puddles the rain had left. Teyla turned around, to check if Dietmar kept up, but he was right behind her, taking in the scenery before him with an expression, that was hard to read.

Teyla walked on, the forge was on the other side of the market. They had to make their way past haggling people, traders bringing in new goods and a bunch of barrels being rolled to the inn. Teyla could already see the forge, a cart was standing beside the building, but she couldn't see someone else at the forge itself, except Bran. So he had probably agreed to have an eye on the cart for someone.

Bran looked up from his work, when Teyla approached him. A smile lit up on the blacksmith's face. "Teyla!" he greeted her. "It has been a long time."

Teyla smiled too. "I had to wait for my daughter to join my family."

"May she walk free under the skies for many years." Bran extended the traditional well wished with heartfelt warmth, before he turned to the back of the blacksmith shop and took something from a weapon's rack there. Coming back with something in his hands, extending them to Teyla. "And may this serve her well, when the darkness falls."

Teyla accepted the artfully crafted dagger with a smile. It would be rude to refuse it, and among many people a blacksmith's blessing carried a special spell.

Some people brushed by, Bran waited until they were gone. "There is nothing new on Ronon." He said then. "He didn't come to Belkan, and he didn't send any message either."

Teyla frowned. This didn't sound good. At times it had taken weeks or months for Ronon to return to Belkan, but right now they needed him really. "We… we have some theory about John." She explained to Bran. "We think the Wraith might have turned him into a runner."

Bran listened up. "A runner, you say? Then you are lucky perhaps." He looked around, clearly checking if there was no one listening. "A friend, a fellow blacksmith, came here today. His name is Syrkan. And… well, he is said to have helped Runners before."

The man packing the cart turned around frowning at Teyla. She stopped, greeting him politely. Offending Syrkan would not do, and he seemed not to be happy to meet them. "Bran advised us to talk to you." She began diplomatically.

"I know." Syrkan leaned against his cart, arms crossed in front of his chest. "Bran told me. And as an Athosian, you should know, that those who dare to help Runners do so in silence."

Teyla inclined her head, indicating she respected his words. "John is a friend." She said. "And I seek to help him."

Syrkan studied her closely. "John?" he asked then.

Hope, warm hope bloomed inside Teyla like a flower after a rain in a dry summer. "You know him," she exclaimed.

"And if it were so?" Syrkan replied. "How would you want to help him? Helping Runners means fighting, and often death in the end."

"If we can find him, remove his tracker, we can bring him… bring him home." Teyla answered. "He has friends…"

Syrkan stepped away from the cart and towered over Teyla. "Your friend is a Runner, child. Runners change, they adapt or they die. And your friend did adapt. If he were to come home, you would hardly find the same man you lost. Most resourceful Runners can't stop running, and your friend is among the most resourceful I have seen. How would you feel, seeing your friend unable to sleep as long as anyone is in close vicinity? Unable to stay indoors for longer than short periods of time? Throwing a knife at a movement he sees from the corner of his eyes, even as this knife might hit you?" Syrkan threw back his head, and a fine scar at his throat got visible. "Your friend gave me this one, when I startled him. And I know how to move among them." He eyed her coolly. "Go home and mourn your friend, child. He won't be coming back." He turned away, intending to leave.

Not willing to give up, Teyla followed him, gripping his arm, to hold him back. Syrkan whirled around, faster than she could see, his first hit caught her off balance, landing her on the ground. Before she could get up, the cocking of a gun, ended the fight. Dietmar had bridged the short distance from his guard position, and had his gun levelled at Syrkan's head. "You will hear the lady out and answer her questions." He said in icy tones.

***

John was standing high up on the remains of the building, studying the ruins around him. The looked oddly peaceful, like dreaming. The young trees and wild flowers that grew in the cracks of the fallen buildings, made it look less miserable. He wondered if this was how everything, even the greatest destruction found some measure of peace at the end. Shaking his head he pushed aside the musings. He had spend definitely too much time in ruins.

He did not need to wonder where Ronon and Jir were. Jir was with Ronon and both of them were close to the tower's entrance. During the last day John had nearly gotten used to the presence of Ronon in the back of his head. Most of the time it wasn't much more than a presence, except when e focused on it. The moment he did that, he knew where Ronon was and what he was just doing, which could be… awkward at times. While still unable to break the link, John found himself able to deal with it, most of the time. Much of Ronon's presence was like Ronon himself, watchful, strong and prone to flare up at times.

Jircanor had said he guessed it might take some more time for the link to fade because it had been unusually intense, and John was willing to give it the chance. Perhaps he was so content because it held back the darkness, the loneliness that John had become all too acquainted with in the past year.

A movement down in the ruined street caught his eye. In reflex he let himself drop down behind the cover of the rubble. There should be no one here.

Peeking down again he saw two figures moving through the street. They moved slowly and carefully, and could never be Ronon and Jir. Something about these figures was familiar, but John couldn't point out what. He focused on Ronon, hoping his friend would see, what he just saw and be warned.

He felt a warm flare-up, telling him that Ronon was aware of the situation. Silently John watched the two figures coming closer, they covered each other, sometimes stopping, to study some tracks on the ground. One of them gestured ahead as they walked. The other one raised a kind of scanner, studying the area. John stayed unmoving, but his mind was racing, those two were searching for something. A warning alertness rose in John, this did not feel good, something was terribly wrong about them. He silently slid down behind his cover, making his way down in the shadow of the ruin. Unconsciously he knew that Ronon was closing in on the two from the left flank, thus John moved more to the right, getting behind them. The trapped them behind them.

Then things went very fast, John and Ronon attacked the figures form both sides, surprising them completely. Their coordination was perfect, taking down both of them before they could mount any resistance. Perplexed John stared at the two men, that were out cold. He had seen such like them before… or something closely akin to it. They looked like those soldiers, changed and manipulated he met in defence of Michael's labs time and again. "I guess we are not alone here any more."


	13. Chapter 13: Forces moving

Disclaimer: I do not own the characters, names or other various parts of the SG/SGA universe and all rights are with their respective owners. This is a work of non-profit fanfiction, and no copyright infringement is intended.

_Author's note: This wasn't an easy chapter to do. Some of the issues coming up where expected, some of them came out of nowhere. Thanks to all those who listened to me and were patient with the issues I had while writing this chapter._

**Chapter 13: Forces moving**

_The darkness drops again; but now I know  
That twenty centuries of stony sleep  
Were vexed to nightmare by a rocking cradle,  
And what rough beast, its hour come round at last,  
Slouches towards Bethlehem to be born?_

_(Yeats: The second coming)_

Teyla sighed frustrated as the cart drove away. In their back was the village, the path to the gate ran around a bent and vanished between the hills further down. "So we don't know anything new. John was made a Runner and he was alive some months ago." She summed up, what she had learned from Syrkhan. "Ronon is gone, and we don't have a clue, where to begin the search." She did not exactly talk to her companion, in a way, she could have talked to anybody else.

"Is there anybody else, who could know something?" he asked nevertheless.

"Runners live constantly on the move, to many worlds they are just legends, stories that are told in whispers. They said about Ronon that he was seven feet tall and killed more than one hundred Wraith." Teyla explained. "But those who had heard the story were Wraith worshippers." She gestured him to be silent, to not answer or speak. Her eyes fixed on the side of the path. In the semi-dark of dawn, all bushes and trees up there threw long shadows, but Teyla's keen eyes saw the crouching figure, that was obviously watching the cart, as it drove away. So Syrkhan had someone on his trail too. Teyla straightened up and cast a glance to her companion. He would need to trust her, and she could only hope he did far enough. "Captain, when I say so, go walking down the path to the upper end of the bend, stop by the Satchel bush and pretend to collect some kind of equipment, we might have hidden there earlier on. Do it in a careful way, that is prone to attract attention."

Dietmar was puzzled, that much was clear, but he nodded. "Will do, Teyla." On her signal he began walking, carefully checking his back. Twice glancing over to the last houses of the village, before he went on. His every move projected the believe to move in secrecy, and the distrustful checking now and then.

Teyla had silently retreated into the shadows, using the cover some old trees gave her to move rapidly uphill. Her eyes never left the figure, that now seemed transfixed on watching what was going on down on the path. Teyla moved silently in on the watcher, who didn't even realise that she was there. Coming closer Teyla saw it was a man, armed with a rifle and a Wraith stunner, that was intently watching the path. She silently took up a heavy piece of wood, it took only one hit and the man went down cold. "Captain, you can come up!"

Dietmar came hurriedly running uphill. When he saw the unconscious man, he whistled. "Compliments, I hadn't seen him." He admitted. "Do you know him?"

"No, but he was watching Syrkhan's cart, so I must assume he was watching him." Teyla said, tying their prisoner up. When she turned him around, she saw a medallion dangling from the prisoner's neck. A medallion like this she had seen before. "So I was right – he is a Wraith worshipper." She concluded. Had Syrkhan been aware that he had someone on his trail? Had he been uncooperative for a reason? She wondered.

"Wraith worshipper? Those people who are worshipping the Wraith and serving them?" Dietmar asked. He might have read tons of material onboard Daedalus, but back then it had been all very theoretical.

"Worshipping, serving, betraying their fellow humans." Teyla replied. "completely addicted to the Wraith enzyme, probably. The Wraith must have send this one to watch Syrkhan. If he truly is known to have helped Runners, it is no wonder, they want to punish him."

Dietmar's gaze was still on the medallion, he had not really listened to her last sentence. "Perhaps we started on the wrong end," he said thoughtfully.

Teyla turned around, facing him. He seemed genuinely determined to find Sheppard, so she was willing to give him a chance. "What do you mean?"

"There is a group that knows how to find Sheppard – the Wraith who are hunting him. Why don't we start at that end?" He pointed at the man, tied up on the ground. "He must know some things, things that might help us."

"Even as the idea is a good one – he will not help us voluntarily." Teyla knew what she was talking about. Only rare few Wraith worshippers, had been honourable men, like Tyre had been. Only few of them possessed the Satedan sense of honour and might follow it.

Dietmar looked around, they were alone on the hillside, the people of the village were unaware of the events up here. "Nobody said, that he'd give us the information out of the goodness of his heart," he said in low tones. "But he can be encouraged to depart with all he knows."

Startled Teyla looked at her companion. "Not…not that I say you are wrong," she began carefully. "but I was under the impression that these actions were outlawed on Earth. The one time Dr. Weir nearly had to draw up these tactics she left it to Ronon." And she had felt bad about it, trying to justify her actions for a long time after, even as the scientist in question had fainted right away when Ronon entered the room.

"It is outlawed in countries that call themselves civilized," Dietmar replied, again checking the area. "but believe me – there are enough people who won't care if it furthers their cause." He stopped, taking a deep breath. "Teyla – you don't need to associate with this. Just give me some time – the night if you can – and don't ask what will happen."

Teyla rose. "Dietmar – I appreciate that you try to protect me, but I am willing to be as guilty as you will be, when we go through with this. It is to save John." She meant every word of it, even as her stomach twisted at the idea of extracting the information forcefully from the Wraith worshipper. Sometimes hard measures were necessary. "I just wondered – most of the soldiers in Atlantis are very conscious of that line…"

"You wonder why I am doing this? I owe John Sheppard my life, twice." Dietmar rose, lifting up the unconscious man, throwing him over his shoulder. "Can you invent something, that O'Neill doesn't suspect us, when we do not return before tomorrow?"

"I believe I will be able to come up with something." Teyla replied. "Where are you going?"

"Deeper into the woods, no need for the village to witness this."

Teyla pointed east. "Beyond that hill his a small river and a waterfall, behind that waterfall is a cave." It was not necessary to say more.

***

"Five more of them, moving east." Jircanor took down his field glasses and turned to John and Ronon, that were watching the other two streets. From their vantage point the Runners could see most of the ruined streets and alleys around them.

"Another group is holding out on that plaza north form here." John replied. "With the five Ronon has seen, we are talking about twenty of them."

"There'll be more." Ronon stated without turning his eyes away from the ruins. "We need to get to the gate before they find it."

John Sheppard couldn't agree more with him. "How do we know that it isn't already guarded by them? They could have come through the gate."

"They can't." Ronon replied. "It's a coded one, they couldn't dial in or out without the right code. Meaning Michael must have a ship in orbit. Those troops are searching for the gate. We need to get there, before they find it."

"Agreed. How far is it?"

Jircanor pointed south. "Not far. But we'll have to cross some dangerous territory."

The three runners didn't hesitate long, the moment the second group was far enough from them, they got moving, leaving their vantage point and headed down a narrow alley. Staying close to the ruins, they had a meagre cover most of the time. John raised his fist to stop them, when they reached the next street. A patrol was passing by. They moved slowly, checking the area thoroughly. Like the first two John had seen, they closely resembled the experiments Michael had conducted on the Athosians, but there were also differences. The change in them seemed deeper than it had been with the Athosians. John patiently waited until the group vanished at the end of the street. "Okay, we are clear."

They moved on, crossing what might once have been a beautiful mall and heading for a huge building further down the road. They had to be careful not to be seen. Behind the wrecks of two burned out ground vehicles, they ducked down through a half collapsed doorway. "Down the stairs, the gate is below ground level." Jir said, and they hastened on.

John was relieved when he saw the gate. They could get out of here. "Whatever Michael wants here, I am afraid this will be his newest project or plant."

"Who is this 'Michael' anyway?" Jircanor had begun dialling the sequence. "it sounds like you both know him."

"He is a Wraith the Atlantians tried to turn into a human." Ronon growled. "He is stuck between both races since then."

Jircanor finished dialling, the sequence took longer as usual, like back when it had brought John to the dark world. "The Hybrid, I have heard rumours flying around about such a creature, but I did not believe them true."

"Could we discuss this another time?" John had a bad feeling about this. Something was wrong, terribly wrong and it would be wise, when they got out of here fast. The wormhole established and stabilised.

Ronon nodded towards John. "Let's get out of here."

***

General O'Neill couldn't help it but grin when he heard Teyla and Schmiedeberg as they stepped out of the gate. The two of them were obviously arguing. "It was unnecessary, you just heightened the pressure and might have scared off as well," Teyla was somewhat exasperated and made no effort to hide it. "It was not necessary to step in, I had things under control."

"For the record – I did not intervene because I thought you couldn't handle him, but because I saw, that this guy had his reflexes not under control. Which placed him next door to the proverbial loose canon. And I am still astonished you let him off so lightly." Schmiedeberg replied somewhat aggressively.

Teyla stoppd, only steps away from the gate. "Captain, an attempt to joke will not alleviate my mood.," she said, but her voice showed, that she wasn't half as angry as she wanted him to believe.

Nursing a cup of coffee O'Neil watched the scene from the command gallery. The two of them were bickering like only Daniel and Carter could at times. Only that… only that it did not fit with their profiles and behavioural patterns, at least if their files were to be trusted.

Schmiedeberg raised his hands, clearly giving up. "I concede the point, Teyla. If you are sure he told us all he knew, then I'll trust your judgement."

O'Neill waited until both of them had reached the command gallery. "The mission did not go as expected, I take it?"

Teyla nodded. "That is true, General. Ronon hasn't come to Belkan in months, but Bran pointed us to another person, who might have some knowledge about Runners. While this man confirmed that John is a Runner, he wasn't willing to part with any further information."

O'Neill's eyes went to Schmiedeberg. "Which was when you decided to step in and apply some pressure?"

"Sir, that man attacked Teyla – not exactly intentionally, but rather in an uncontrolled reflex." Dietmar replied. "I just told him to mind his manners."

"Reminded him at gunpoint." Teyla corrected. "and then offered to extract the information… what did you call that?"

"Beat the information out of him," Dietmar ended the sentence. "Some people get far more cooperative with a good threat hanging over their head."

"He believed full well that you would go through with your threat…"

O'Neill raised his hand, interrupting the discussion. "Stop right there! So you played 'good cop – bad cop' with that guy. Did you get the information?"

"Yes, Sir. It is not as much as we might have hoped – but it is a good start."

O'Neill studied Schmiedeberg for some moments silently, he knew that this kind of scrutiny could make people nervous. If Schmiedeberg was he didn't show it. "How stupid do you think, I am?" O'Neill asked all of sudden.

"Sir?" Schmiedeberg had let go of his relaxed pose, snapping to a semi-attention state.

"Oh, come on… do you think I am stupid? It is a nice act you and Teyla put on here. I would have believed it, I was close of buying your little act here in fact - had you not bickered at each other all the time." O'Neill ignored Teyla's attempt to interrupt him, and went on. "So, Captain, what did you do to obtain the intel?"

"Nothing, except talking, Sir." Schmiedeberg kept his gaze fixed on an imaginary point on the wall. "I may have told him some things, I would do to him, if he did not answer Teyla's questions…"

O'Neill interrupted him again. "Captain – I really hate to repeat myself, so don't make me ask too often: Do you believe me stupid?"

"Sir, no, Sir."

"You know what, Schmiedeberg – you just gave yourself away." O'Neill walked past his desk, standing right opposite of the Captain. "Back in Greenland, I went to my best 'General-mode' to stop you from asking further impertinent questions. But you never stopped. And now you just give me the 'Yes, Sir; No, Sir; Three bags full,' Sir treatment? C'me on, not even Woolsey would fall for that one."

"Sir, your were not my CO back then." Schmiedeberg still kept his gaze on the wall, his face an unreadable mask.

"Thanks to God for that!" O'Neill crossed his arms in front of his chest. "So – what did you do to get the intel? I'd really advise you Captain, not to make me ask a third time."

"General, perhaps…" Teyla began, but O'Neill wouldn't let her finish the sentence.

"I did not ask you. You were lying last night, when you told us you needed to stay on longer. Your husband was rather marvelled about the change of habits, the people on Belkan seemed to have had." O'Neill's gaze went back to Schmiedeberg. "I guessed something was up then, Captain. Contrary to what you might believe I have read your file, the real one, not the one three different organisations washed clean using up a lifetime supply of Persil in the process. And when you two came back through the gate, putting up that school – theatre act, I knew I was right. So what did you do?"

"Sir, we caught a Wraith worshipper, spying on some of our sources, caught him and beat some intel out of him: the name of the hive that took Sheppard, and the places where they have outposts." Schmiedeberg replied. "After that the worshipper was disposed off."

"Meaning you killed him." O'Neill watched the Captain closely.

"Aye. By next nightfall the wolves will have eaten him up."

O'Neill leaned back more, casting a sardonic glance at the man in front of him. "Let me get this straight: you caught an enemy, interrogated him illegally and eventually killed him. Why do you think I should let you get away with this?"

"You have no reason to, Sir."

O'Neill turned to Teyla. "You can go, your family is waiting for you."

"General, I would prefer to stay." Teyla replied. "Whatever happened is as much my…"

"You're a civilian, whatever you did, you have to live with it." O'Neill replied, gesturing her to leave. Uneasy Teyla left the office.

***

A garb of fire shot after them, John dodged them, returning fire on their pursuers. He had neither the strength nor the time to curse. It was the third gate they had passed, trying to shake off their pursuers, but no luck so far. John had not much hopes that their fourth attempt, another gate transfer, would really help them much. Crouching behind a rock beside the DHD, his caused their enemies to duck right now. "Wormhole established – run!"

It didn't really need encouragement, John retreated to the gate, still firing on their enemies, as did Ronon and Jir, shortly after the others, he entered the gate. The moment they stepped out of the gate, all three of them split up in different directions, finding cover, weapons ready to fire on whoever might follow them through the gate. But the wormhole expired without anybody following them. John let go of a long breath and rose behind the fallen tree-trunk that had been his cover. "Let's get moving, they'll come through soon enough." It wouldn't take them long to find the address that had been dialled last on the DHD.

Ronon nodded. "Tactics change?"

John agreed silently. Time to revert to classical runner tactics, getting away from the gate, forcing the enemy to search a vast territory, splitting his forces thin. All around the gate stretched a dense forest, there was no sign of any inhabitants close. The ideal place to go to ground. They fell into the typical runner pace: a fast jog they could keep up for many hours and vanished into the forest.

The forest grew more dense the farther they got away from the gate. By nightfall they slowed down for the first time. "I think, we shook them off." Ronon gestured back. "No way the followed us that fast."

John agreed, up till now it had taken their pursuers less than an hour to be after them again. "We keep moving, hiding away in the forest. It will make it harder for them to find us." They could go to ground for some weeks here, until their pursuers lost their patience and gave up. But for some weeks they would have to stay far away from the gate. They walked on into the night. John noticed that whenever they came across a rare clearing, Ronon studied the skies.

"What is it?" he asked after a while, when Ronon again had looked up to the dark sky above. "Something is worrying you." He felt all too clearly, that something was worrying Ronon.

Ronon pointed up, to a bright constellation of stars, their light seemed to have a bluish tinge, a cold, bright light. John could easily judge that this small cluster of stars couldn't be that far away. "The fires of Caldemar's forge," Ronon said. "we are too close to them. We are close to Wraith-territory."

Jircanor had stopped too, turning around. "The half-breed will have to be careful bringing his troops too close to Wraith space – he isn't exactly welcome there."

They moved on, crossing a river around midnight, making their way across a small ravine soon after and evading the outskirts of a swamp, in the hours before dawn. The skies grew grey again, the new day upon them, but they kept walking, the sun was already rising again, when they reached a long dry canyon and left the woods behind them for the first time. "We better hurry, these canyons are a death-trap." Ronon said.

"Much as I dislike to agree with you – but you are quite right." The voice came out of nowhere, but was close enough to be heard clearly. Ronon whirled around, his weapon levelled in the direction of the voice. But he saw nothing. Just the rocks in front of them and the forest behind them.

"Where are you?" he bellowed.

"A cloak." John observed coldly, studying the territory around them, searching for the best way out.

"You are quite right, Sheppard." The voice replied, only moments before the cloak fell. It wasn't one person cloaked, it was a troop, at least fifty of them, having the three runners encircled. But John didn't see the troop, he saw the man who had spoken, whose voice John knew all too well. "Michael."

"You forced quite a hunt on me, Sheppard." Michael replied. "But now, the hunt ends."

John looked around, there was next to no chance, that they could break out of this circle. "What do you want this time?" he stalled. They needed time to come up with something.

"I had believed you of no further importance for my plans, Sheppard." He said. "But then one of my spies told me by accident a fascinating detail about you. You surely know that Captain-General Vintár will be put to death, for failing you? For failing one of the true blood?" Michael paused, raising his hand. "You didn't know? How tragic."

"If this is another of your mad plans…" John tried not show what he was feeling. He knew that many people in Pegasus treated him with respect because of the ATA gene, it had been true that Vintár's people had treated him with a respect bordering to reverence, but what Michael was claiming here had to be a lie. It was just impossible. "I won't help you. And you know that."

Whatever Michael intended to say was drowned out by the shriek of a single dart high up in the air. All, runners and soldiers alike looked up. The ship passed right overhead, the white culling beam fell down, it white focus enveloping John and Ronon in a bright light, ripping them away, out the midst of their enemies. The dart swooped again, leaving Jircanor and Michael's troops behind.


	14. Chapter 14: Shreds of the past

Disclaimer: I do not own the characters, names or other various parts of the SG/SGA universe and all rights are with their respective owners. This is a work of non-profit fanfiction, and no copyright infringement is intended.

**Chapter 14: Shreds of the past**

_I shall be telling this with a sigh_

_Somewhere ages and ages hence:_

_Two roads diverged in a wood, and I--_

_I took the one less traveled by,_

_And that has made all the difference._

_(Robert Frost: The road not taken)_

The cell was dark, a shadowed place between organic walls. To John this place caused an odd kind of déjà vu. That kind you really didn't wish to see again. In a place such as this his journey as runner had begun, more than a year ago? How long ago exactly John wasn't sure about, not any more – sometimes it seemed a whole lifetime ago.

"You okay?" Ronon's voice betrayed a slight worry. John had known without looking around, that his friend was there, the steady presence had been there without him consciously checking. Now he turned around. Ronon sat on the ground, only a few feet away from him, somewhere in the dark was someone else lying unmoving.

"Jircanor?" John asked in low tones. The figure lying in the far corner of their cell was too small to be the tall Runner. Perhaps their friend had been brought to another cell onboard this ship.

"He wasn't taken." Ronon replied. "The beam didn't get him."

John sighed, this was no good news, it meant that their comrade had been left behind, caught by Michael's forces. It might place him on short track to being experimented on by the half-breed Wraith. John bit his lip, should he have condemned another friend to…

"Jir is strong, he's resourceful and he's cunning." Ronon suddenly said. "Michael won't know what hit him. He'll be out there in no time." Despite his confident words, the emotions Ronon projected were mixed. John knew that Ronon trusted Jircanor to escape because of his track record as a Runner, but at the same time remembered another Runner of such a track record who had found a gruesome death.

John shuddered when some reminiscences of it flickered through his mind. _He died without betraying the secret._ Those scarce words had not revealed that the man had died under torture, and that Ronon had been forced to watch. "How did you stand it… having it all ripped away from you?" John wasn't aware he had asked aloud. "Your friends… your world…your son."

Ronon looked up, in the semi-dark of the cell, his eyes shone. "Nothing we have stays ours, John. All that is, is fleeting, it will be lost eventually. There is nothing that stays. That's why… why we can only appreciate the things we have, because we'll lose them in the end." He took a deep breath, visibly fighting to keep a measure of countenance. "It's hard to let go sometimes… but they are beyond the night already, to them the long darkness is over."

John could well understand how tempting it could be, to just think that somewhere beyond death the darkness was over, the pain would stop and the suffering would end. John had been there himself, at the brink to just give up and welcome death as the way out, but… there was something in him, that wasn't ready to give up, a will in him still to fight back, no matter what. It was hard to find words, to express it, though. "I am not ready to give up just now."

Ronon looked up, trying to hold on to John's gaze. "How do you do it? Hang on to hope, never give up? Even here, you… you never resign and just wait for the end."

"Neither did you. Even after seven years as a runner – you never gave in." John replied.

"That's not the same." Ronon leaned back against the wall. "I just fought back, it was the only way to fight on, the not let Sateda down…" His eyes remained fixed on John. "But I… I forgot that there was something outside running, and fighting, and running again. When you found me… on that planet, I had given up on anything that wasn't fighting, killing and running."

"But you stopped running, in the end." Even without the bond John would have known, that they had touched a sensitive topic, perhaps even the reason why Ronon had stayed in Atlantis.

"That was not me – it was you." Ronon said after a while. "You… you were so determined to have me on the team, you believed so strongly in me, in my abilities, that… that I started to believe it too, that I started to believe that I could stop running."

"It was you that found the strength to change," John said with conviction. "you did it all by yourself." Like Ronon had survived seven years on the run, and the battle for Sateda, and countless dangerous missions before. "You don't happen to have one of your knives still with you?"

Ronon shook his had. "They were thorough when disarming me. Even the Wraith learn eventually."

***

The door closed behind Teyla, O'Neill switched it to stay close for now. His eyes went back to Schmiedeberg, who stood unmoving. "You know – Colonel Hutchinson warned me when he heard I had recruited you," he said in deceivingly calm tones. "He told me that you had 'a stubborn streak that can't be cured', and that you are 'dangerously close to being a self-starter.' He was rather vocal about at least three incidents where you acted first and got permission later."

Schmiedeberg didn't as much as blink. "Sir – Colonel who?" he asked, his face still the unreadable mask.

"Ah, don't play stupid." O'Neill shot back. "I used to work for the very same outfit, back when Hutchinson was still a spry Lieutenant and the unit we are talking about refrained from borrowing troopers from our allies." O'Neill had watched the tension rise in the Captain during his little speech. It was a process that required reading very subtle changes in the bearing of the other man. "Relax, Captain – the code is LIONESS WALKING."

The reaction was instantaneous, a visible pushing back of the built up tension. "Sir, I assume he gave you the file."

Jack shrugged. "Maybe, he also might have mentioned, that you don't easily trust your CO's." Schmiedeberg refrained from answering, again retreating to listening to O'Neill's rant. O'Neill had no problems to read that attitude, Schmiedeberg would listen until O'Neill had vented his rage and accept the punishment meted out, just the same way. And O'Neill wasn't going to let him. "So, was he right?"

"Sir?"

"Was he right, Schmiedeberg? Did you no trust him as your CO?"

"I trusted him as far as anybody could trust a man who let him walk right into an ambush, Sir." Schmiedeberg replied, in cool tones.

"So it was personal," O'Neill observed, satisfied that the answer had been exactly the one he had expected. Not in the details, but in the direction. "As was this here, wasn't it? The situation got personal, or was personal from the beginning, and you just MADE THAT CALL. To hell with the consequences." O'Neill knew his words had hit the right point, he could see it in the Captain's reaction. "You trusted nobody else, only yourself to make the right call. A nice judgement of character for everyone involved, I might add."

O'Neill let those words stand for a moment, let them sink in. He knew he had gotten through to the man, his mien betrayed this more than he probably liked. And the Captain didn't like the assessment O'Neill had just handed out. Silently O'Neill wondered if Hutchinson should have tackled the issue, the incident in the Alban mountains, just like this. "As I see it you've got two options." He went on, after a moment. "The first one is you walk out of this door, we dial Earth and you'll be home within the week. Anything I might add to your file won't damage your career too much, because General von Aue isn't going to trust anything that comes from me, because to him this mission is fishy." O'Neill kept his gaze at the Captain, watching his reactions closely. "The other is – you stay, and you damn well set aside your attitude and start working WITH the people around you." He scrutinized the man before him. "And that means trusting them, trusting their decisions, trusting them to look out for you." O'Neill had read the file on Daedalus and knew this might be an issue for some time, once distrust was learned, it didn't go away easily. "So, what's it going to be?"

The silence lasted for another moment, before Schmiedeberg answered. "I'd prefer to stay, Sir."

O'Neill nodded. "So, you can start your report from the beginning – the full report."

***

A movement in the darkness caught John's eye, the other prisoner was awakening. He had sat up and by the way he was sitting, was ready to get to his feet. John noticed that there was no panic in this one, it seemed he was already aware that he was onboard of a hive ship. "I see they are beginning to fill up the store." The voice was light but very ironic.

"Looks like it," Ronon turned around, towards the other prisoner. "Where did they capture you?" The tall runner inquired, calmly.

"You mean who traded me off to the Wraith?" The reply was no less sarcastic then the first one. "Villager scum on Iszár."

"You were sold to the Wraith?" John had seen deals with the Wraith before, but still believed them to be isolated incidents, sparked by desperation.

"What's new about it?" The answer was bitter. "They find one who has the spark, who isn't one of their own and they trade him off, for some years of meagre peace."

"The spark?" John wasn't sure if he had understood right. The accent was not too strong, but the whole intonation made it hard to follow the sentences at times.

With one fluent move the prisoner came to his feet and walked over to John. Squatting down beside him. "So you don't know?" he asked softly, for the first time without scorn or irony in his voice. "You actually don't know you have the spark?"

Suddenly John realised what had irritated him about the voice from the very beginning: it was too young. Now, as the other prisoner was closer to him, no longer hidden in shadow, he could it was a rather young man, or perhaps just a teen. But for a teen he was utterly too calm about being imprisoned onboard a Wraith ship. "I still have no idea what you are speaking about," he replied friendly. "What's your name?"

The young man frowned shortly, then relaxed again. "Bane. And yours?"

"John. So what was all this about the spark?"

Bane shifted his position slightly, for better balance. "John, I can't tell you what the spark is, but I know the Wraith can sense it – it is like a bonfire that attracts them. They even deal with humans to get their hands on those who have the spark." He stopped, bit his lip. Carefully, as not to startle him, he placed a hand on John's shoulder. "I know this sounds frightening – but we may have still time to escape from here."

The way the youth tried to comfort him, nearly made John laugh. With all the madness in the last hours, this was just surreal. But John checked the desire to laugh at once. Bane had just tried to comfort another prisoner, to extend what ever help he could give, and this didn't deserve to be laughed at. "You already have made plans?" he asked, it was meant a little bit teasing, but not unfriendly.

Bane's eyes flashed in a burst of temper. "Lying low and waiting for an opportunity. I have been aboard this ship for three days now, and they are on their way to rendezvous with a great hive, from what I gathered by listening to the guards."

"A great hive or just another hive?" Ronon interjected.

"A great hive, they spoke of a Lord, a 'great one' shashikuan'aa shikaaháshal." The last both words came out in a fair imitation of the Wraith hissing.

Ronon scowled. "That's bad news."

Bane rolled his eyes. "Tell us something new, great warrior."

"Whoa, stop it!" Sheppard raised his hands that was meant for both Ronon and Bane. "The last thing we need you two bickering at each other." He saw that both of them checked their temper, and bit back whatever words they wanted to exchange next. "So – what we need is a plan."

"Waiting for an unguarded moment sounds good." Ronon pointed towards the cell door. "It's not that we many other options now."

"We might get a chance should they take some more flesh deals on board before they make it to the great hive." Bane offered.

"Flesh deals?" John didn't like the sound of this term. And he liked Bane's expression even less, no one under twenty should carry this grim, hardened expression.

"Other worlds that treat over people to be spared. Not all have the spark, though. Some world just catch people from other places and trade them over to the Wraith. Cowards." Bane spat the last word.

"I always thought the Wraith didn't honour such deals." John vividly remembered the villages that had traded Ronon to the Wraith, they had been killed.

"They do." Ronon replied gruffly. "Most of the time they do. That's why there will always be people trying to get off by trading others to them. Lower-class citizens, prisoners, criminals – it's all equal to the Wraith as long as the numbers add up."

John remembered that mad moment on Sateda when Ronon had refused to return to the jumper with them. "Is that why you wanted to honour their deal?" he asked. Had Ronon really been willing to face death, to protect those who had handed him over?

"I owed it to them." Ronon avoided John's gaze. "But even in that I was death's messenger to them."

John wanted to tell Ronon, that it wasn't his fault, that the villagers had brought this fate on themselves, when they traded him to the Wraith, but the words seemed stuck in his throat. He remembered how he had felt when the culling his Anchoril. In that last long year he had seen too much, had learned to understand how heavy the hand of the Wraith was on Pegasus. He wondered why Ronon, Teyla and the Athosians never had hated him for waking the Wraith from their long slumber. Perhaps it would have been better they had never come to Atlantis, better if the keeper had killed him.

Suddenly Ronon looked up, his gaze fixing on Sheppard. "Their long sleep was coming to an end." He said. "The signs were all there, more hives stayed active, more hives woke slowly from the long slumber, and… the first Wraith Lords reverted to their true form, overcoming whatever the Lanteans did to them. It was only a matter of time until they would have woken all."

The jigsaw pieces of what he knew of the Wraith danced in John's head. "Wait – I always believed the Wraith hibernated because they lacked food, waking only all some centuries. And what are Wraith Lords?"

Ronon sighed. "It's complicated." The former runner replied. "Legend has it that the Lanteans did something to the Wraith in order to protect the worlds they seeded. Something they did send the bulk of the Wraith force into a hibernating state. It is also said that this weapon, or whatever it was, took some time to work on some parts of the Wraith population. And it never worked on all of them."

"They were giving the worlds they had created a fighting chance." John observed. "Give them time to grow strong and evolve…"

"But the Wraith still awake saw to it, that those worlds didn't evolve too far." Ronon interrupted him. "Worlds evolving too war were culled and destroyed. I know. That's why they came for Sateda in the end." He took a deep breath and went on. "But by that time the signs were already there, the Awakening was upon us. The first High Wraith had reverted back from their transformed state…"

John wanted to ask again, forcefully what a High Wraith was, when the pictures from the nightmare he had some days ago, returned to him full force. The Wraith unlike the other Wraith, more human, more dangerous, far more powerful, the Wraith that had proposed some kind of horrible deal to Ronon. "Big guy…" John said softly. "that Wraith… that was a High Wraith wasn't it? The one from your nightmare."

"This he was." Ronon's voice was close to inaudible. "And he just had shed his skin, reverted back to what he was. And still… his powers were tremendous, a terrible force freed from the chains…"

John had to draw up all his willpower to shut out more images flooding his mind. "But what are they? Just a male counterpart to the Queens?"

"No." Ronon shook his head. "Legend says they are half Ancient, half Wraith. And from what I saw of them I believe it."

And suddenly John understood. It just made sense, in a terrible way it was even logical. The Iratus bug hadn't just fed on humans, taking on their characteristics, evolving into a thread ravaging a full galaxy, it had also fed on Ancients and merged with them too – creating a threat on an unimaginable scale. A terrible power born. John shuddered. "We were lucky not to run into one of them, when we first met them."

Something akin to dry, short smile lit up on Ronon's features. "If anyone could have handled one, it would have been you."

***

"According to our intel, it's the weakest outpost that hive has. More of a repair and supply depot structure than an actual troop camp. It should be possible to get our hands on one of their trackers without raising a major ruckus. Once we have it, we'll be able to locate their runners the same way they do. It might force us to hunt down a handful of Runners, but still would bring our chances back to the realistic."

O'Neill studied the map in the centre of the office. It was already late again, the planning session, following the report had taken up some time. "Now, that's what I'd call a plan." He said, satisfied with the outcome of the day. Fixing his gaze on the man on the other side of the map. "See – it wasn't all that hard."

Schmiederberg nodded, refraining from a direct answer. "Which teams are to go on it, Sir?" he asked instead.

"You take teams three and seven." O'Neill had made that decision ours ago, but waited how the further planning came along. "You have a go for tomorrow morning."

"Aye, Sir." Schmiedeberg logged some last notes into his computer pad, gathering some other notes, preparing to leave.

O'Neill studied him for a moment silently. Assessing what had transpired during the last day, including their discussion. He was sure it didn't need a reminder to stick to the rules, O'Neills rules that was. The man had accepted the conditions O'Neill had laid out, and he was obviously willing to keep to them. "You knew Sheppard from before."

O'Neill's words startled Schiedeberg. "Sir?" he asked, clearly wondering if he had heard right.

"You knew Sheppard from before." O'Neill repeated the assessment. "You said as much to General von Aue back on Earth."

"That's correct, Sir. We met twice before, both under less than ideal circumstances." Schmiedeberg deactivated the computer pad, locking it with a code. "General von Aue knew only of one incident – the one in Afghanistan."

O'Neill nodded, he had heard about that one more than enough when he had recruited Sheppard for the Atlantis mission. "What was the other one?" he asked.

"It was another of those incidents that have never happened." Schmiedeberg replied. He didn't need a reminder that the incident would be in his full file anyway, after a moment he went on by himself. "That incident in the Alban mountains… the one Hutchinson send me into – it was there. I was supposed to sneak into a place, gather some dropped off data and return without attracting attention. It was a setup, a distraction, while I walked into an ambush and got captured, the real man with the real data snug out without being intercepted. But something else went wrong in the whole op, somebody else got trapped too, and Sheppard was send in for an extraction."

"Only he found you instead of his target."

"He was captured too, interrogated and… let's leave it at that. After all he had been through he still had the strength to intercede when the guards were about to finish me off. The beating he received… the hits to the head, I was later told he'd never fully remember what happened because of that. Eventually they decided we were of no further use and tried to dispose of us, we escaped and made it back in the end." Dietmar's eyes went through the map, staring at something that wasn't really there, at the past. "'I'd have never survived in that place without him."

It didn't take much for O'Neill to read between the lines of that report. He had been in such spots himself, he knew the scars it left. The incident had not been included in the file he had read, but that wasn't something he'd ever let on. "It's always hardest when we know it's a friend out there, waiting for help." He eventually said. Reverting back to his usual manner of speech he added: "See that you get us some nifty Wraith tech tomorrow, so we can finish up this mess."


	15. Chapter 15: Where the fires do burn

**Chapter 15: Where the fires do burn**

_Behold one who is born to the fire,_

_Behold the spark that kindled the flame,_

_Behold the strength that endures through the night,_

_Behold one who was born_

_To burn_

_To shine_

_To be a light_

_In the night to come._

_(Prayer from the Pegasus Galaxy)_

Pain was the single focus that held Jircanor still together. He had stopped caring about the wounds his body had suffered long ago, the pain had provided him the crystal hard focus to go on, and fight his way back to the gate. He knew that the small measure of ground he had won on his enemies, would not last long. A detached part of his mind noted that he wouldn't be able to last long any more, there was only so much his body could take, before it would fail him. Kneeling down beside the DHD, he checked the edge of the woods. None of his hunters was in sight, which meant next to nothing. There was a hive in orbit and it would be only a question of time until they caught up to him again. Forcing himself up, he leaned on the DHD while he dialled a coded gate address. Silently he prayed that he was lucky and would find the help needed there. If not, if he found the place empty, he'd hardly have another chance. But this didn't make him hesitate for a moment. The wormhole established Jir walked towards the gate. The moment he stepped through, he saw his pursuer reach the edge of the woods. A wry smile rose on his bloodstained features, the runner had outrun his hunters for one last time.

He could not prevent himself from landing on the ground on the other side, tumbling down a flight of stairs. Even in the haze he recognised the place by the dark hall, carried by black columns, he would never forget this place, Jhimada fortress.

"Jir… Tarnelións hell, what happened to you?" The familiar voice sounded like it came from afar. Relief flooded Jircanor's mind, so Syrkan had been at his hideout. "Ran afoul of a hybrid. Nasty piece of work." It was the last he could say before blanking out.

A painfully prickling feeling woke him, he didn't need the sensation to guess that he had been woken by the generous use of some drugs. Blinking he realised that most of his wounds were dressed with clean banadages. He tried to sit up, but a strong hand pushed him back. "Jir… try not to move, you make it just worse."

Syrkan was kneeling beside him, stashing away something, that looked vaguely like a familiar disinfectant. "How bad is it?"

Syrkan's features grew sad. "There is no use in lying, Jir: if you last until nightfall you are lucky, if you live through the night it's a miracle."

Jir nearly managed to smile, his old friend had no reason to be sad. "Then I'll see a battle won before the night is over." He replied, taking a slow breath. "But I have a mission to complete before."

"A mission? Jir, is another Sarkai in need?" Syrkan asked at once. He'd go and help whoever it was, no doubt.

"Two of them, actually. And they are in deep." Jir found that speaking became a little easier. The drugs were doing their job. "Syrkan – I need to go and find the commander of Atlanteans."

Syrkan scowled. "I had a run in with some of them not long back. They were looking for one of their number who is Runner."

Jir nodded. "John. This is about him. Do you have a way to contact them?"

"No, but I know who has… the Belkans are trading with them, so they'll have means of contact no doubt." Syrkan replied. "But you are in no shape to go anywhere, Jircanor. Whatever strength you have…"

"Won't save me anyway." Jircanor cut in. "So I'll use whatever time I have for something that's worth it."

"Aye, Capitaine." Syrkan knew he couldn't change Jircanor's mind. "But I'll get the Atlantis commander to come here."

***

A shudder ran through the ship, followed by another shaking. John saw Ronon rising from his sitting position. The Satedan looked warily to the cell door. "We just docked with another Wraith ship," he observed in low tones.

John nodded, somehow he didn't wonder why Ronon was so sure about this. Something had made him uneasy for hours now. It wasn't just the tension of being imprisoned, or being coped up in the narrow space of the cell. It was something different, like a presence that made him uneasy in a way he could hardly explain. "Some… something is out there." He wasn't sure how to articulate what he felt.

"You feel the presence of the Wraith Lord." Ronon replied. For a moment it looked like he wanted to say something, but then just bit his lip. "We'll get out of here, somehow."

John could feel a lot of conflicting emotions from Ronon through the bond. His friend had a good idea what lay in store for them, but he was afraid to speak of it. Somehow he doubted John would believe him and… John nearly gasped when a flood of emotions washed over him. A rush strong and far more addictive than all the enzyme could do, a whirl of strong emotions… a profound shame for something… _"Without you, we'd all be dead, Ronon. The were times when we feared we'd never see you again." _It took conscious effort on John's side to drown out the voice and shut down the link. He felt – knew- he had trespassed on something Ronon had not wished or dared to share with anybody else.

"Those who return from walking in the dark share their knowledge in silence with those who walked the same path." Ronon suddenly said. "In silence, for nobody else could possibly understand what they experienced."

John wanted to ask what his friend meant, it was surely another quote from another code or set of rules, but the cell door opened and an armed guard detail came to take them away. They came in great numbers, to prevent any escape attempt. Their leader, a tall Wraith with a sharp, angled face, stopped in front of John sniffing his scent before hissing loudly. "Take them, death upon anyone who let's this one escape." He gestured towards John.

"Thanks, I think." John shot back. "Why don't you just start on reducing your goons a little? It might add the charm of the place." Perhaps he could rile up this Wraith enough to make him commit a serious mistake.

But the Wraith just hissed again and the guards levelled their weapons on Ronon. "Resist and he suffers." The Wraith said, a nearly ironic gleam in his eye. "run and he dies."

"If you put it like that…" John didn't resist any further, he could see that Wraith was deadly serious. "All right, all right!"

The Wraith led him and Ronon out of the cell, another group took Bane. "The Lord doesn't want him. Put him down to the trading goods." The leader said.

John had to admit: their escort was sharp, alert and saw to it, that they had no chance to escape. They were led through the ship and something that resembled an organic hatch. John could only guess that the tunnel they were passing was some kind of connection between the ships. Without passing that tunnel, John would never have guessed, that they were on another ship already. To him hives looked pretty similar. At least he could tell that they were led straight towards the heart of the ship, the place where the command centre and the Queens were usually located. He had seen those throne-room like chambers before. In front of this one, he saw another guard post. Six he counted, so there were six more to take care of, even if they somehow managed to break free inside.

The door opened for them and John perceived a room, like he had seen it on other hive-ships. The form long, with rounded corners, at the far end stood a high chair, resembling a throne more than everything else. But this room was larger than those he had seen on other ships. Before he could make more observations, he found himself pushed forward, to the middle of the room. Guessing what was to come net, Sheppard stalled, preventing the Wraith guards successfully from forcing him down to his knees. Short-lived as this victory might be. Ronon struggled against the iron grip of the two Wraithguards that held him, but lost and was forced to his knees, the guard behind him, keeping him in check. John struggled against the self same grip, fighting a battle he was to loose any moment, when a well know voice interrupted. "Leave him be." The grip of the guards actually loosened, as they stepped back, allowing him to stand on his own.

John raised his gaze to the Wraith on the throne, what he saw didn't surprise him any more. He had recognised the voice, the figure on the throne was all too familiar. "Todd."

***

"Unscheduled off-world activation, unscheduled off-world activation." O'Neill turned on the threshold of his office and returned to the command centre. Should the mission to retrieve some tracking devices have gone awry? "Chuck, what have we got?"

"Sir – we're receiving a code. It is one of our trading codes, the one the people on Belkan use." Chuck replied, his eyes on his monitors.

O'Neill was familiar with the concept of the trading codes, Atlantis had established a whole network of trading relations, which obviously needed a degree of communications and contact. "Lower the shield." He ordered. "And call Teyla up to the gate room."

The shield fell and moments later a tall man stepped through the gate. He was armed, he carried a sword on his back and had a gun in the holster at his side. The way he held his hands, he made sure the Marines guarding the gate could see them. O'Neill turned to Teyla, who came had just entered the command centre. "One of your trading partners?"

Teyla's eyes widened as she saw the man standing down there. "Syrkan?" she asked, clearly not believing what her eyes told her. "General, he is the man, Bran recommended we ask about John."

"The one who attacked you?" O'Neill inquired. Years on off-world mission had enabled him to assess people he met off-world speedily. And this one down there screamed 'danger' in every gesture, even as he tried to tone it down and project a non-threatening pose.

"It wasn't intentionally, General. It rather seemed to be a reflex." Teyla couldn't speak up, because the man down there, raised his voice. "I don't come as an enemy to your gate. I came to find the commander of Lanteans in Atlantia."

"That would be me." Forgoing any further stalling or analysis O'Neill walked down the stairs towards the gate. He stopped only a few paces from the new arrival. Experience with Jaffa and other warrior nations had taught him a good deal about how to handle them. Never hide behind armed guards, direct approach and steady eye contact were usually the minimal rules when talking to them. "what brings you here?" he added.

Syrkan studied him for only a moment silently. "A man came to my hideout this night, a runner – he says he has a message for you, about one of your people who was made a runner about a year ago."

"And why isn't he here then?" O'Neill asked. "As you did not want to talk to our people when they came asking."

The warrior didn't take the bait. "He is grievously wounded and I doubt he will live to see another day's rise," he replied. "thus I came to find you."

O'Neill's decision didn't take long. He knew it was a danger to trust and to follow the man to whatever place he intended to bring them. Their intel was scarce at best. O'Neill's gut feeling told him, that this was the clue they had been looking for. He had followed this feeling in the past, and it rarely led him astray, yet every time he had went with it, had been a risk. One he would not ask others to take without taking the risk himself. "Have team five down here, ready to move out in 20," he ordered. "they'll accompany me. And have another team assist Dr. Beckett with his medical gear." Meaning that they'd have the full fighting strength of two teams at hand if things went bad.

O'Neill was well aware that the troops and the marines were ill at ease. Not because of the mission ahead of them, they had taken to the fact that they were to follow a local to an unknown location with a calm that told O'Neill much about the level of collaboration between Atlantis and people of Pegasus. No they were nervous about the fact, that he accompanied them into the field… again. Well, they would have to learn that he might be forced to fly a desk often enough, but would not chain himself to said desk. Dr. Beckett seemed somewhat nervous too. "So ye' found me another lion." He said, when he checked the heavy package before a marine shouldered it.

"Lion?" O'Neill asked. "Don't remember cats were mentioned."

Beckett's smile told him, that this was in insider joke. "Runner." The Scottish doctor explained.

"General, the sequence is set for dial up." Chuck called down to them. He had been conferring with Syrkan about the address they needed to go to. A coded address. O'Neill wondered who had rigged up that safety mechanism without screwing the whole system. Mercy upon that one, if he ever fell into Carter's hands. "Good! Dial it up!" he called back to Chuck.

The sequence ran longer than usual then the gate locked on and the wormhole established. The teams moved out in routine fashion. O'Neill kept a close eye on Syrkan. The man was hard to read, neither his mien nor his demeanour gave much away, yet there was an amount of tension in him as he walked into the blue light of the gate.

The transfer ended in a closed space, the gate was inside a grand hall. The marines efficiently went out, securing a perimeter. O'Neill's gaze fell on the makeshift camp on the far end of the hall. The man, who sat with his back leaning against the black stone of the hall, a gun beside him, looked much like a wounded soldier, waiting for the enemy to come for him. Syrkan gestured in the same direction. "Come with me, General." He said. "Let's hope Jir held out that long."

O'Neill didn't need to call for Beckett, the doctor followed them without needing any encouragement. Getting closer O'Neill saw that the dark-haired man, who was waiting for them, was in very bad shape. There were bandages, bloodstained bandages covering a number of wounds, slow laboured breathing betrayed pain, and potential internal wounds. Yet the gaze that met O'Neill's was focused and alert. "Syr… you found them?"

Syrkan nodded. "Jir, this is General O'Neill, commander of the Lantean troops, General… Capitaine Jircanor."

O'Neill didn't lose time with more formalities, they were not really important here. He bent down, so he was eye level with the wounded man. "Your friend said, you had a message for us," he began.

A curt nod was the first reply. "Aye, that's true. I was with John and Ronon for some days before we got separated. The Wraith implanted a tracker into John that interacts negatively with your own subcutaneous transmitters, causing them explode when coming close. From what I gathered – it has already happened at least once."

"That's what happened to Shelleau?" The gears in O'Neill's mind were already spinning. It was the first time a useful explanation of the river incident came up.

"Right." The wounded man took another slow breath. "John and Ronon were taken by a dart, when we were separated. It was no random culling, I was standing right beside them, and was not taken. The pilot of the dark did a precise job, he had to bring them, no one else. The dart was marked with the sign of the T'shachailiyiis Alliance. It's a fairly new conglomerate of hives. Rumour has it, they are under the control of a Wraith Lord, who hasn't shed his skin yet. If he's the one who marked John, I do not know."

"Marked?" O'Neill inquired. He vividly felt like in that first year after re-opening the gate, when he had needed Teal'c to provide them with at least some level of information.

"John carries the mark of a Wraith Lord… that's why the wild Wraith didn't dare to touch him. The mark is incomplete, the Wraith Lord has fed on him, or given life back, maybe both but he has not brought him to the burning point and over the threshold yet." Jircanor shook his head tiredly. "Don't try to understand it – it's too long an explanation for me to give."

"But we know what we need to get Sheppard and Ronon out of this mess." O'Neill said. He would get his intel, but not here and now. He turned to Beckett. "Doc?"

Beckett's eyes were focused on the ancient scanner in his hand. "General, there isn't much I can do here… that lad needs extensive surgery."

"Can we bring him to Atlantis?" O'Neill wondered if the man could survive the transport.

"Stupid idea…" Jircanor spoke in lower tones now, conserving his strength. "my transmitter was blanked some days ago, so it can't be repeated without killing me for some time."

"And they transplanted it right into your spinal cord…." Beckett's voice trailed off. "Great God…. Lad…did you do this to yer'self?" He exclaimed when he saw the readings.

"Cut out transmitter one and two, they went for foolproof with the third."

O'Neill held the gaze of the wounded runner. "We have to thank you. We will get Sheppard and Ronon out of this mess, you have my word on that." If there was nothing else he could do, he could let the runner know that his death had a meaning, that what he had done would make a difference. "Doctor Beckett here will take care of you." They had to get moving, with these news time was of essence. The eyes of the runner told O'Neill that the man understood, in a life left behind a long time ago he had been a soldier himself.

O'Neill ordered the marines to stay behind to protect Doctor Beckett. He knew he had laid a heavy burden on the man, staying behind with a dying man was never easy. But if there was a chance, slim as it might be, that the man could be saved, Beckett would find a way to do it. The gate dialled out, back to Atlantis and in O'Neill's mind the plans for the next steps were already forming.

***

"Todd." John didn't know if he could be astonished any more. "Long time, no see. You know… you don't really look the role of a Wraith Lord."

The Wraith rose gracefully from his seat and walked towards them. He stopped only a few paces from them. "As I told you once, Sheppard: there is much of Wraith you do not know."

"I got that." Sheppard shot back. "I hope you don't plan on another hoax, after taking down the Queen, being an impostor Wraith Lord."

"He hasn't shed his skin yet." Ronon spoke with a tense level of aggression in his voice.

"So now you Wraith aren't bugs any more but snakes?" Sheppard let his mouth run with whatever he could come up with, and be it only to mask the nagging dread inside him. "Shedding the skin and all."

Todd laughed, it was a nearly amused laughter. "When the Lantean's left this galaxy they used one of their last weapons to send us to sleep, to make us like the lesser Wraith and send us to a long slumber. Hoping we would eventually sink to their level, become like the Wild Wraith, forget what we are." Todd raised a hand. "some of us slept and dreamed in the long darkness, some of us were caught, imprisoned nearly forgotten and some of us were lost." A sharp hiss accompanied his words. "But we are waking."

The words fit well what John had learned from Ronon earlier, back in their cell. "Good for you." Something inside him warned that it wasn't wise to be smart-mouth around here, that he'd better not annoy Todd too much.

"Shedding our skin, becoming as we once were, is a process that requires strength, a tremendous amount of strength, to revert the change forced upon us." Todd said, his voice sinking into a hiss.

And suddenly John understood, that's why they were here, that was the reason they had been brought here. The clarity was frightening, and it left a painful knot in his stomach. "Let Ronon go, Todd," he said hoping his voice wouldn't shake. "you can take what you need from me."

"No!" Ronon shouted, struggling against the Wraith, that still held him in check. But the Wraith ignored him, his eyes held John's gaze. "You are very brave, Sheppard. This I knew when I saw you in the Genii-prison. More worthy to be a brother, than most born to the spark."

John raised his chin, forcing the fear down, meeting Todd's eyes as calm as he could. Marshalling all his courage he held still. The Wraith raised his hand, it took all the self control John had not to flinch, when the hand touched his chest and a familiar surge of pain ran through his body.

***

"Wormhole established, we have the signal of the MELP." Chuck reported. O'Neill tapped his radio. "Schmiedeberg, come in."

The crackling of the radio gave way to a clear signal. "Schmiedeberg, here."

"What's your status?"

"The teams are on opposite sites of the compound, Sir. We have watched the comings and goings and it looks like the intel checks out: it is a supply depot. Troop presence isn't exactly minimal, but we should be able to sneak in, after nightfall."

O'Neill nodded the mission was running as planned. "There was a change of situation, Captain." He went on. "We received new intel and our time is running short. Can you obtain the devices faster?" O'Neill had been on the other end long enough to know that some choice words were probably running through the Captain's mind right now.

"Yes, Sir. It can be done in approximately two hours." Came the reply. "But it means raising hell here and come in hot, when we return."

O'Neill couldn't suppress a short grin. He knew why he had kept then man on the mission. "You have permission 'to raise hell' Captain."

***

The pain was worse than all he had ever been through before. A burning that began in depths of his body and rose like a wave to the surface. He knew he should long have crumbled to the ground and died, but there was something, a burning brand, a fire that fuelled the pain, that made him hang on, that sustained him, that let the fire burn even brighter. The pain grew more intense, more intense than anything he could ever have imagined. That it didn't drive him mad, was the exhilaration that grew from it. He was alive, more vibrantly alive than he had ever been, the burning fire in him was a light that he wouldn't extinguish even if it meant living with the pain for the rest of his life. The light enveloped him, as the pain drowned out all other sensations, in a wave of agony and exhilaration John felt his body being burned and washed away in the fire.

It ended abruptly, the fire grew colder, the pain faded away, the cold drawing him as he fell to his knees. His body shaking in pain, but alive – so very much alive – he could see his hands, still strong and young. Somewhere from afar he heard Ronon's voice.

"Behold one who was born to the fire,

Behold the spark that kindled the flame,

Behold the strength that endures through the night,

Behold one who was born

To burn

To shine

To be a light

In the night to come."

John looked up, and found his face reflected in one of the controls on the wall. A face very much alive, somehow a little more ageless than it should be. The shaking grew violent, as his body gave in to the residue pain, and he fell to the ground. Looking up he saw Todd's face, but it was changed, gone were the gaunt Wraith features and the grey skin. The pale, more human form was no less frightening, the power behind those features could not be denied. A Wraith Lord in the truest sense of the word. The Wraith bent down beside John, his hand gently resting on John's aching chest.

A cool sensation, like water tickled over John's skin, numbing the pain. "The spark burns bright in you, brother." The Wraith whispered. "it will sustain you, in the dark where ordinary lives perish."


	16. Chapter 16: The face of the enemy

Disclaimer: I do not own the characters, names or other various parts of the SG/SGA universe and all rights are with their respective owners. This is a work of non-profit fanfiction, and no copyright infringement is intended.

Author's note: I owe thanks to John for bringing up the solution for Carson's dilemma and for his patience with me. Thanks so much! The chapter got a little more of our favourite Wraith than originally intended, John. I hope you like it!

**Chapter 16: The face of your enemy**

_I'm living my life in spiralling gyres  
that move over things sighing by.  
I never may reach the last of the spires,  
but still my resolve is to try._

_I revolve around God, the ancient expanse -  
for thousands of years, I can tell -  
and yet I know not, what I am to be thence:  
A falcon? __A storm? A chorale?_

_(Rainer Maria Rilke: I'm living my life in spiralling gyres)_

The room wasn't a cell per se, John would have called it an odd version of living quarters, had the door not been firmly locked. What was odd about the place, was that it nearly looked like it was created with human inhabitation in mind. Perhaps he had been thrown into the rooms usually reserved for a worshipper. Thrown was the wrong word too, he had not been thrown, rather led to this place, by two guards watchful but oddly respectful. John's body was aching, even with what Todd had done to lift the pain, there was a soreness in his muscles, a sneaking pain, that could not be talked away.

Seeing something remotely resembling a washbasin John dragged himself over. He was thirsty and tired, some water would be welcome. He really found the basin filled with clear water. His own reflection mirrored clearly in the basin. John nearly jumped, he still could not understand the change that had come to him: his face was still his face, yet if he had been forced to guess his own age, he'd trouble to do so. The face he saw in the water was leaner than he remembered his own face, like he had been reduced to the essence of his being, yet it was unmistakably himself. More so than he might like to admit with the experience that lay behind him.

Brother. The word left a hollow echo in his mind. The first time Todd had called him that had been after they had escaped Kolya's prison. Back then, Sheppard had not thought much of it. But in the end Todd had been right: There was much what Sheppard did not know about Wraith. If he was completely honest, he did not even know if Todd had something like a real name. _Tharishaár. Your guess was not so bad, Sheppard._

John's hands gripped the rim of the basin hard, to prevent himself from falling. The voice he had heard in his mind, was Todd's…the voice of the Wraith Lord. How was this possible? Had Ronon heard it too? Trying to reach out to Ronon in his mind, he found only emptiness. _The link was severed when you died and were revived. The spark burned it out of you._

John scowled. He had come to accept the remnant link with Ronon's mind. But having a Wraith laking in his head was another thing. _So now you have access to my mind? Tharishaár, no offence but I am a rather private person._

It felt like he was hearing a faint chuckle in his mind. _You are not, Sheppard, you are shouting on the top of your mind. And I am not linked with you – I can hear your surface thoughts, and speak to you the same way._

John staggered the few steps away from the basin and sat down on the bunk on the other side of the room. So the High Wraith were even more telepathic than the Queens were, small wonder if they had enough Ancient DNA. The whole room seemed to be turning around him.

_You are exhausted, you lived and died in the span of an hour. Find rest._

Albeit John wished to tell Todd that he should stop talking to him, and he found the fact that the Wraith might care even more bothersome, he could not deny the logic of the suggestion. He was exhausted, too exhausted to even think straight. Sliding down on the bunk he was asleep before he had stretched down fully.

***

The next time John awoke he felt far better, for a moment he wondered if all this, Todd feeding of him, the odd effect it had on him or seemed to lack to have, had been a nightmare. But he was still in the room where he had fallen asleep, they were unchanged with the exception that someone had left a tablet with food and water beside his bed. Lt. Col. John Sheppard would probably have refused to touch the food no matter how hungry he was. The Runner John had no such hesitations, he needed to keep up his strength, and who knew when he would get the next change to have something to eat? John stared at the tablet, puzzled. Had he really changed so much? Had survival and sheer pragmatism changed him so deeply? Yes, it had, he admitted. And he had stopped making gestures, your survived and kept it together to the moment you could really do something. Everything else was useless chatter. Without further ado be began to clean his plate.

When he was done, the door opened. The same guard that had led him in here the evening before, entered. "Come with me."

John rose from his seat and walked to the door. Outside he saw the other guard from last night waiting for him. Walking between them another trip through the ship began. "So you two are to guard me, huh? Make sure I don't get lost?" John began one of those conversations that, with Wraith, were doomed to stay one-sided. He did not know why he was still trying, experience had told him that it was hard to rile Wraith up with words. "I don't guess you have names, do you?" He would come up with nicknames for them, should he spend too much time under their guard.

"Ashaviiýr," the one walking to his left replied, then pointing with his head to his comrade. "Sherachhvhar."

The answer startled John. Not only had the Wraith deigned to talk to him, he had actually told him his name and the one of his comrade. He had no chance to ponder the fact longer, because before him a huge door slid open and he was led in a familiar type of room. He had seen such a room before: it was the Wraith equivalent of a med station. Three more Wraith were present there, waiting respectfully in the background. One of the guards – Ashaviiýr again – pointed to 'bed' in the middle of the facility.

John shook his head. "No thanks, I am quite fine, despite the little feeding adventure." He said. Whatever they wanted, the day he needed a Wraith doctor would be a day hell froze over! Half did he expect to be grabbed and tossed on the table, both guards were absolutely capable of handling him if they set their mind to it. But nothing of that kind happened.

Instead the other guard talked shortly into something that might be Wraith communication device. Some minutes went in silent waiting. John wondered if the Wraith were just testing if he would change his mind. But then the doors of the infirmary opened again, and Todd, no: Tarisháar strode in. The three wraith in the background bowed deeply, the two guards saluted. Tarisháar waved the guards to retreat some steps. He himself stopped right opposite of John. "I was told, you resist the healers, Sheppard." He said in amused tones. "Are you so keen on keeping the tracker?"

John's mind was spinning. "You…you would remove it?" He stammered. "Why?"

"Because I do not tolerate transgressions against a brother," was the cryptic answer. "some of my troops, led by one of my most trusted commanders, are closing in on the hive who did this to you, as we speak."

A soft shake went through the ship, John knew it meant they had just dropped out of hyperspace. A com flared to life, he could not understand what was said, but it was obviously a message Todd, Tarishaár had expected. "The healers will take care of you." He said before he strode out of the infirmary.

John slowly sat down on the treatment bed, trying to get a grip on what had just been said. Of all things he might have expected or guessed, he'd never believed it was the Wraith themselves that would remove the tracker again. One of the healers approached him, in his hands a small pot with a steaming brew inside. He said something in the hissing language of the Wraith. "This will numb the pain." Sherachvhár translated. "It can't take away the pain completely, lest the danger of doing nerve damage during the removal is too great, but it will make it bearable."

"I can handle a little pain." John replied, taking the pot and drinking the brew. It tasted awful, somehow foul and bitter. "Argh, do you have some water?" he asked when he was finished. Ashaviiýr hissed in low tones, and one of the healers handed John a pitcher with water. Gratefully John emptied most of it, it took the foul taste out of his mouth.

Resting stretched on the bed John tried not to be nervous. Sure, he was under some painkiller, but he wasn't out cold. Years ago he had watched Dr. Beckett removing a tracker from Ronon. The runner had refused sedation. Back then John had not even liked watching the scene, but having someone cutting his own back open, while he was awake, freaked him out. To distract himself he turned his head to the side, where Ashaviiýr was standing guard. "Is it true – there are troops on the way to the hive?" His eyes darted up, indicating his shoulder and the tracker. He didn't expect Ashaviiýr to answer him, but as long as he kept himself distracted from the proceedings things were fine.

"It is true." The Wraith replied. "The attack should be in full swing by now. Sherachvhár has three nest-brothers with the dart-wings onboard Jhashistaár-Hive."

"Nest brothers?" John took gladly to the conversation, it kept his mind occupied, allowed him to ignore the pain, and the operation on his back.

"Wraith born from the same breeding nest," Ashaviiýr explained. "most Wraith have five to seven nest-brothers. It is similar to siblings among human cultures. Pair-brothers are far more rare, but there is a fair number of them." He obviously saw John's puzzled glance because he went on: "Pair-brothers are two Wraith born from the same breeding-nest, that are identical in looks. The human term, I believe is: twins. Single births almost never occur."

John let the information sink in, so Wraith had something like families, brothers born from the same nest. It was a far cry from human family terms, but then it would have been unlikely that they had no social structures at all. "And you? Do you have brothers?" He asked, to keep the conversation running, he convinced himself.

Ashaviiýr's Wraith face changed to an expression hard to interpret for John. "My pair-brother is leading the attack on the hive." Was the answer. "he has orders to bring in the Wraith who made you a Runner alive."

***

Carson Beckett had never been a man to give up easily. It was a trait that had served him well during his captivity with Michael and countless other tough situations he had faced since coming to the Pegasus galaxy. Among the things he never could reconcile with was losing a patient. But what he saw right now was even harder: he knew that he could save this one, if he only could bring him to a decent hospital and perform the surgery necessary. But it was not possible, a small device implanted in the man's spinal cord made it impossible. And the patient had accepted that long before Carson did. "There is nothing you can do, Doctor." Jircanor's voice was controlled, betrayed how hard he fought to keep the pain at bay.

Carson shook his head. "Lad, if I can get those bleedings stopped and you stabilised it will give me some more time, to come up with a solution." The Scottish doctor was undeterred, albeit a small voice at the back of his mind whispered, that he was fighting a losing battle.

"Time won't change then outcome," Jircanor turned his head, to face Carson directly. "I know how much I can take."

"Lad, at this point I wonder how ye even managed to stay conscious, the pain would have taken down most other men long before." Carson had offered the runner something against the pain, but Jircanor had refused the medication.

"The meditation of pain teaches us that pain is the one constant in life: as long as we life, we will be in pain, only in death the pain will fade. Once we accept the pain, stop fight it and stop suffering from the fact that we are in pain, it will never rule us again."

"I for my part, refuse to let others suffer, when they can be saved." Carson replied grimly.

"What is your name?" The wounded Runner asked all of sudden.

Carson looked up, he had tried to check the bandages as gently as possible, but he needed to be sure, that they would keep the injured ribs in place. "Carson Beckett, why do you ask?" Most cultures they had encountered here in Pegasus accepted healers without much questions, he had rarely been asked for his name in a situation like this.

"I wanted to know the name of the man, who tried to save me." Jircanor replied slowly. "I might see a battle won tonight, but that doesn't blind me for the friends I leave behind."

This time Carson stopped for real. "Beyond the night the battle won?" he quoted in low tones. "is this what you believe? That the battle is truly won, when your life ends?" His mind might understand that in the middle of a constant fight against the Wraith, many inhabitants of the Pegasus galaxy had come to see death as a salvation, but his heart rebelled against it all the more.

Jircanor actually managed to smile. "Do you ever look up to the stars, Doctor Beckett?" he asked.

Carson had returned to taking care of the worst damage. "Often," he said. "I love to watch the skies in Atlantis, I often did so at home."

"Most people in Pegasus will never do this," the Runner spoke easier than before, perhaps because he was distracted. "they fear the dark skies above, it is the realm of the Wraith, doom falls from the starry skies. It's what makes Runners different: we look up to the sky, we need to watch the starts to know how far out we are. And we don't fear them anymore: we already know that the Wraith will kill us eventually. Doctor --- Carson: I have known I'll die for decades now, and I knew the day would come I wouldn't be able to outrun them. It might not be the way to go, I would have chosen, but we don't get to chose our birth and our death. And when I die this night, I die knowing I won: I won't die because they eventually caught up with me, I die knowing I accomplished the mission I chose, so tell me, Carson – who won?"

"Lad, you can be stubborn all ye' want, I'll still try and help ye'." Carson sighed inwardly. Runners! Ronon had been downright easy by comparison.

"Carson – not even all the tech of the Lanteans could save me probably, and I am at peace with that fact. Had I been asked to chose, I would have died a long time again, among my comrades under the gates of Tamaryn palace."

Not all the tech of the Lanteans… the thought set Carson's mind spinning. There was a way… a dangerous way… and one that he hardly would get the permission to use. Dr. Weir had banned the device from ever being used again, because of the risks involved. And it might be as well a one way ticked, if Rodney's solution did not work for him too. Still, it was the solution to this problem. Carson took a deep breath. "Jircanor… listen to me. Ye' are a mighty stubborn lad, and ye' will hang on to ye'r life until I am back. Understood?" He said. "I have a plan."

Jircanor leaned back, casting a questioning glance at Carson. "I'll wait for you, right here."

"Good." Carson could see that the Runner wasn't convinced, perhaps he even believed that Carson as just getting out of here. "Look – I need one or two hours to prepare." Carson went on, he couldn't explain his plan, it would take up too much time. "You will fight for your life, lad." He said firmly. "And that's a damn order."

The Runner's wry grin surprised Carson. "Understood."

***

John could still feel the long line on his right shoulder blade where the Wraith healers had cut out the tracker. Whatever they had done to the wound afterwards was as efficient as he could wish for. Except for some minor pain, he was good as new. "The healers have told me of the special nature of your tracking device." The voice made John jump, he had not realised that Todd, or Tarishaár had entered the room.

"It made sure I couldn't return to Atlantis." John had turned around, facing the Wraith Lord. He still was startled by the appearance. Perhaps because he half expected to see the Wraith he knew and remembered, perhaps because something in him still hoped that the more human he looked the less dangerous he might be. A dangerous illusion.

"The commander of my troops reports that the Wraith who did this, has fled to one of the most minor facilities of his hive: a supply depot. He is confident to catch him within the next hours." Tarishaár couldn't hide he looked forward to this.

John bit his lip he knew fairly well what a vengeful Wraith was, but had never expected any Wraith to get vengeful because of him. "Why?" he asked. "Why do you even care?"

"As I told you, Sheppard – I do not tolerate transgressions where it comes to a brother." Todd repeated the sentence John had already known.

"Look – about this whole 'brother' thing…" John's voice trailed off. "I don't want to sound ungrateful or something… but: what the hell happened to me?"

"None of you friends told you?" Tarishaár asked perplexed. "Ronon…"

"Yeah, I know that Ronon made some kind of devil-deal with one of your kind." John replied. "I don't know the details – he wasn't comfortable to talk about it and I respected that." He remembered Bane onboard the other ship, trying to comfort him. Bane had assumed John had reason to be afraid. "So – what is this 'spark'? You fed on me, and somehow I am not old and withered and very dead."

"There are few among humans who have the spark." Todd replied. "Sometimes there is none among one hundred thousand, and then there might be three among only thousand of you. But in those, who have it, the spark of life is strong, far stronger than among ordinary humans. Their fire can't be extinguished by a simple feeding. You didn't age under my feeding, John Sheppard, you died. You died and you came back to live. I drew all the power out of you, but something in your soul would not give in, and your life's flame burned all the more brighter for it."

"You say I died… I did only feel pain." John was confused, especially when he remembered another detail. "But…why did I age when you first fed on me, back in that prison?"

Perhaps it had not been a good idea to bring up that day. It had been one of the hardest and strangest in Sheppard's life. The day he had found himself allied with a Wraith. Todd did not reply at once, but eventually spoke. "When I saw you there, in the prison, I knew you had the spark. We Wraith can feel it, even among thousands of your kind. The spark sings to us, it shines like a beacon in the night. The light I saw in you would have blinded Kolya, could he see it." The eyes of the Wraith Lord met Sheppard's gaze. "I was weakened from my long imprisonment, unable to shed my skin right there and then. And I didn't want our captor to know you for what you were. So I had to intentionally damage you, force the aging where it was unnecessary. Had I seen another way, I would have done otherwise. We never mutilate our brothers."

"So, I still CAN age under the feeding, but it won't happen by itself?" John's mind was trying to get the facts straight.

"No. Most Wraith who try, will not be able to feed off you at all. Those who still could, will feel my mark and stay away. But even their feeding would not make you age. Only the Wraith who brought you over the brink, kindling the spark in you, can manipulate your physical form."

The cool touch, numbing out the pain, was still vivid in John's mind. "So if you were to feed on me again – not that I want that – what would happen?" He needed to know, to understand.

"Nothing. You would feel pain, not as intense as the pain you felt the first time, but in the beginning the pain will be there, your body would remain as it is, except you might find yourself healing faster and regenerating better after a while."

All the facts together would have been enough to set John mulling over them for a while. But right now he could not afford to do so. "Where are Ronon and Bane?" he asked instead, taking their conversation into a safer direction. He had to think about all this later.

"Bane, the young one, escaped his guards and is hiding out somewhere on this ship. Ronon is in a cell some decks below." Todd replied. "He is unharmed and well fed. Ashaviiýr will take you to him, if you wish to speak with him."

"He will?" John could not help it, but the question sounded sheepishly. The Wraith had somehow been less scary, when they had treated him like a prisoner, but like some kind of guest. "No offence, Todd, ah damn it: Tarishaár – what do you want?"

The Wraith Lord remained completely still, his eyes boring into John's. "One day I will ask your help. But not in exchange for other things." He said and strode out of the room.

***

"Prepare everything for some field surgery." Carson instructed Dr. Keller "and have the Marines bring the equipment through the gate. I'll join them shortly."

Keller had taken in the instructions calmly and nodded. "Will do, Dr. Beckett. Are you sure that you don't need assistance? From what I know about Runners…"

Carson waved her words off. "You will be needed here. I have the feeling our team out there will raise more hell than they can safely handle. You take care of them and leave me to my lions." He knew he was a little harsh on Keller but right now Carson had a hard time to ignore the fear gnawing at his insides.

Leaving Keller to the preparations made his way down into the deeper levels of Atlantis. Striding through the empty corridors his mind played his decision over and over again. What he was trying to do here was madness. It was something a man might undertake to save a friend, but for a stranger…

Carson shook his head. "I'll take care of my lions." He stated grimly, speaking to the silence around him. Ever since he had met Ronon Dex in that damned cave, he had wondered why there had been nobody to do for the brave Runner what he had done eventually: removing the device. But most inhabitants of this galaxy seemed blissfully satisfied with staying away from the Runners. Which left the Wraith free reign to do as they pleased: to capture and hunt and make sport of brave men, who would fight back as long as they could, but ultimately stood alone in the face of overwhelming odds. It was what had bothered Carson ever since he had met Ronon. The Wraith could only do as they pleased because nobody opposed them. Because nobody cared or dared to pry those made Runners out of their clutches. Because there was no one, who would step in and say "You can't have him." Because the fear had made people look the other way. "Not only are we responsible for what we are doing, but also for what we allow to happened by not intervening." Carson told the silence of the empty corridor. He stopped as he reached the door. His own reflection mirrored pale in the door. Carson raised his chin. He would not turn back, he would not go and silently accept that another man who fought the Wraith died, alone and unknown. "The true enemy is indifference."

Determined he entered the ancient lab. It was exactly as he remembered it. Focusing on what he had been taught when he had been working with the command chair and other tech here in Atlantis he stepped into the circle, placing his hands left and right on the device. A spiral of light fell down on him, enveloping him.


	17. Chapter 17: Navigating the maze

**Chapter 17: Navigating the maze**

_He forgets to pursue the point.  
It is now what he wants to know.  
It is what he wants not to know.  
It is not what they say.  
It is what they do not say._

_(James Fenton: A German Requiem)_

Walking down into the cell decks of the hive ship proved much harder than Sheppard would have expected it to be. Ashaviiýr had escorted him down here without questions. The tall Wraith acted sometimes more like body guard than a jailer. A fact that bothered John a little. He had not been really conscious of it until the moment they had reached the cell decks. The gaps in the doors had revealed the gaze of a number of prisoners held in the different cells on this deck. John had expected that the hive carried an amount of human prisoners, but had counted himself among them. Yet, when an angry shout from a cell, ended in Ashaviiýr levelling his heavy gun on that prisoner, he realised that it must look different from the other side of those cell doors. Here he was, no less captured then them, but he was walking freely about, accompanied by a tall Wraith fighter, walking two steps behind him. They must think he was a Wraith worshipper.

Caught up in his thoughts, John didn't see the woman behind the next cell door, extracting a long, sharp item from her hair and throw it through one of the gaps of the door. He only felt Ashaviiýr push him down on the floor, blocking the razor sharp blade with his left hand. John could see the blade pierce the hand, Wraith blood smearing it. The Wraith guards and some drones came running towards them, weapons ready. Ashaviiýr ripped the blade out of his hand, before he turned and offered John his healthy hand to help him up. John accepted, not because he needed the help, but because the Wraith may well just have saved his life.

The leader of the guards spoke in the hissing Wraith language, to John it looked like he was either explaining or apologizing, perhaps both. Ashaviiýr shrugged. "Have the rest of her family moved up one level. It won't be long before our troops will return, they'll be exhausted."

John shuddered. With her ill-planned attack on him that poor woman had just moved her family up on the feed list. And her face told him, that she understood – horror marked her features, as she clung her children closer to her. John looked down, he felt sick. The attack had been meant for him, whom she probably believed a traitor, a Wraith worshipper. One of the drones stepped forward, to open the cell door, only hindered by the fact, that John was still standing in the way. "Ashaviiýr…" John didn't know what he could do, but he couldn't just stand by and let it happen either. "…is it necessary to punish her? She…she just fought back."

The Wraith's gaze turned to John. "She attacked you, not me." He pointed out.

John felt like the ground beneath him had opened up, thrusting him into free fall. The punishment dealt out was for the attack on him…. "Ashaviiýr, don't punish her, not for the attack on me." He said, trying to be firm, but it sounded awfully like blurting. "Please." He had just crossed a line, he'd never believed he would cross. He might have bargained with Wraith before, he might have cajoled or pretended to deal with them, but he never had asked something of them, let alone begged.

Ashaviiýr's eyes met his, fiery embers lighting up all the brighter. "She tried to kill you." He stated. "if you want to kill her yourself…" he raised his left hand, offering John the blade the woman had thrown.

"No!" John met Ashaviiýrs gaze, marshalling all his strength. "I don't want to kill her and I don't want her family moved up… just because she attacked me." He didn't know why Ashaviiýr should listen at all. One prisoner trying to talk the captor out of punishing another prisoner. It was nothing that would work out.

Ashaviiýr was still for a moment, then nodded curtly. "As you wish it." He turned to the guards, hissing orders at them. They marched off, leaving the cell alone. Behind the door John saw the woman, staring at him, tears in her eyes, confused.

"Thank you." John's voice was low, not because he couldn't bring himself to thanks Ashaviiýr but because he was still fighting to get some measure of control over his voice back.

"She attacked you – her punishment was yours to decide." The tall Wraith replied. They were walking deeper into the cell deck, but mercifully the cells that they were passing were empty. John suspected that Ashaviiýr had taken a longer route to avoid further problems, part of him wondered if the tall Wraith tried to spare John further confrontations with imprisoned humans.

"I hope you are less merciful when they bring in Cxreeshaách." The Wraith observed casually.

John looked up, he didn't need an explanation to know that Cxreechaách was the Wraith who had made him a Runner. He had learned the name the day before, albeit only half remembered it. Not for the first time John had the feeling that Ashaviiýr was looking forward to his brother's success and to seeing said Cxcreshaách brought low. "Me?" John asked, raising his hands in a gesture of protection. The Wraith sense of justice was something he found hard to deal with at times. "Todd, I mean Tharishaár will probably already have decided his fate."

Ashaviiýr stopped, staring at John incredulously. "His transgression was against YOU." He stated. "So the great Lord will hear you, before deciding. I doubt, though that your mercy would be enough to save that cresh'al'ki moa."

John didn't really understand the word in the Wraith language, but he got the gist of it anyway. "How do you – I mean how do Wraith traditionally punish such transgressions?" He should not even like the thought of it, but he couldn't help but wonder what the Wraith might do to that one.

"He will die as slow, painful and very public death." Ashaviiýr replied. "depending on your decision, and that of Lord Tharishaár, he could be punished by hacking off his feeding hand and presenting him in a cage, for all to see, or he might be thrown into the pit." A grin lit up on the Wraith's features at the last words.

"The pit?" John asked, hoping he wouldn't find a Pegasus version of "The Pit and Pendulum" somewhere on this ship. "What's this?"

"A large area – a pit – filled with deadly traps, cunning dangers and other hazards. If it was an ordinary Wraith he offended, the Wraith would go with him into the pit, fight and kill him there. In this case Lord Tarishaár will name the one who gets to rip that cretin apart."

"Why do I have the feeling, you are looking forward to it?" he asked, as they walked on.

"I do."

Only the fact that they stopped right in front of a cell door relieved John from answering. Ashaviiýr opened the cell door. "I'll stand guard outside."

John had rarely felt as self-conscious as at the moment he entered the cell. What had transpired in the corridor left a bitter feeling in him, that made facing his friend all the harder. Ronon hated the Wraith, rightly so, and what would he say about all that happened?

"John?" Ronon's voice was heavy with worry. "You look like hell. Come, sit down." The tall Satedan urged him to sit down on the cell floor, squatting down opposite of him. "Take a deep breath, just let go." He said softly.

"I'm not sick…" John shook his head. "or I am… maybe… about myself." It was far more true than he had realised. In one rush the words broke out of him, a jumbled mess of fragments, about what happened in the corridor, about that woman and her knife, about Todd having the tracker removed, about himself being something of a traitor…

When he finished he felt Ronons strong hands on his shoulders, steadying him. "Just let it go, John." The Satedan said softly. "Just let it all out…"

***

Carson's return to the hideout had been in a hurry. "You'll need to go right now, Doctor, or you'll have to wait until the strike team comes back." Chuck had said. "They are on their way to the gate and will be coming in hot."

Carson felt a little bit guilty about his relief. The thoughts of everyone were with the strike team, making a run for the gate, so nobody asked him any questions. Chuck knew that he had to return to the hideout and was efficient as ever to get the gatetravel timed well. "I'll go at once." Carson said. "Any wounded on the strike team?"

"No, just running to the gate, the Wraith in hot pursuit." Chuck replied "I guess half of them will come in wounded, but nothing above the average."

Carson was grateful to hear that. Dr. Keller was competent and would take care of that. He saw that the dialling sequence was nearly finished and walked down the stairs. He had not much time.

Stepping out of the gate Carson found Jircanor still sitting where he had left him. The Runner looked up to Carson, as he approached him. "You people dropped all this stuff off, before they left." His eyes pointed to the equipment.

"The General is already acting on the information you gave him." Carson said. "So there's quite a situation in Atlantis right now."

Jircanor's weak nod indicated he understood. "So, what's the plan?" he asked, referring to Carson's words when he had left.

Carson looked around, it wasn't exactly the ideal surroundings, but he had by now become accustomed to field surgery, Pegasus style. The team had everything set up, prepared for what needed to be done. "We begin by tacking care of your tracker." He said confidently.

"You know it will kill me anyway."

Carson sighed. "Lad – I know the risks of that procedure, and there is way to get you through it. Ye' have to trust me on that." For the first time Carson actually focused on what had been awoken in him. He could feel it, like he would feel some the Atlantis tech at times, only stronger and less foreign. He was very careful, not to send a shock through Jircanor's body. Just enough to stabilise him.

The Runner's eyes flew wide open. "Carson… what…?"

"Don't worry, lad. We'll get you through this." Carson cut off the question. "I am going to give you a sedative, that will blank you out for some hours."

Jircanor nodded. "I trust you."

***

Dietmar had had a bad feeling about this every since General O'Neill had given them permission to raise hell on the supply depot. Getting into the compound had been easy enough, the guards had been sloppy, third rate, no problem at all to take down. But inside the compound their troubles had begun, there had been troops here, that were far too sharp and too well trained to be stationed at this depot, and they were too strong in numbers. Whatever they were guarding: Dietmar couldn't care less. They were here to obtain tracking devices and to get out again. With that as their primary focus they had fought their way into the main storage area, obtained the tracking devices along with some spare trackers and made their way out again. On crossing the courtyard between the three main buildings of the depot, they had found themselves under fire from two sides. A set of explosives had opened them a way out and they had started their retreat to the gate. The Wraith had after some initial confusion come after them in greater numbers than Dietmar would have estimated could have hidden in the compound. But their head start should still have enabled them to make it out.

They were still half a kilometre from the gate when the shrieks rose in the sky, a set of explosions shook the ground. Dietmar scowled. This couldn't be good. He gestured the first group to start making their way up the steep path that led up to the plateau with the gate. They needed to make use of whatever time they had left before another wave of bombings came down on them. Together with the second team he made it to the beginning of the path, taking cover behind rocks and tress. Their fire held their pursuers at bay for now. But there were more coming. "Captain! We have reached the gate! Dialling out!" Dietmar gestured half of the team to start their way up, he and Henderson were the last to begin the retreat. A second wave of darts followed, they did not throw explosives but white light to the ground. All around them, on the path, on rocks up and below, behind the enemy troops and in the woods emerged more Wraith warriors.

Henderson and Dietmar reached the upper end of the path. Hundred meters left to the gate. And the path crawling with Wraith, storming up. Dietmar frowned as he changed the clip of his P90. Were there shots fired between the Wraith? "They are too many – we'll never make it to the gate." Henderson wasn't wrong. Up on the plateau, without cover, the Wraith would catch up and stun them in no time.

"You go first – I'll hold them off." Dietmar checked, he still had grenades left.

"Captain…"

"That's an order! Go! I'm right behind you!" Dietmar barked at the man, who obeyed and started towards the gate. Dietmar couldn't say how many Wraith his shots killed, there were always more to come. The grenade bought him time to change clips again. Henderson had reached the gate! Dietmar threw another grenade down the path and started his own retreat, keeping a steady stream of fire on the Wraith coming up on the plateau after him. Another shriek high up in the air – and four white beams fell down to the plateau, Wraith troops emerging from them. A blue shot hit Dietmar in the side. Falling to the ground he saw Henderson stepping through the gate. Then his world went black.

The Wraith commander stood over the human prisoner, studying him coldly. He had not expected humans to be here, except for some worshippers perhaps. But this wretched hive seemed to have more quarrels than they were actually worth. "Transfer him to the ship." He ordered one of the dart pilots. "Have him imprisoned there and make him talk. I want to know what these troops were doing here."

He did not wait for his orders to be confirmed, it wasn't necessary. Instead he turned and sped down the narrow path. He had a far bigger catch to make.

***

"Better now?" John still felt shaky and more than a little embarrassed at his collapse, but he nodded. "Yeah. Thanks, big guy."

Ronon sat down beside him. "I know how it is – I've been there myself." He replied. "but you know that."

John hugged his knees, resting his arms on them, his chin just above his hands. "I know only bits and pieces… but I don't understand them, Ronon. Tharishaár, the whole brother thing. I still don't understand half of it."

"The powers of a Wraith Lord are great." Ronon began speaking. "far too great to be fuelled by ordinary…sustenance." The Satedan's gaze went to the other wall, not really seeing it as he spoke. "When feeding of normal people, their powers are stunted, their control severely diminished. Contrary to when feeding on one of us. That's been at the heart of any deal cut with a Wraith Lord, ever since this war began."

"But why would anyone cut such a deal?" John asked, then looked up startled. "I don't mean you were wrong when you saved your comrades…"

Ronon waved it off. "In most cases the deal is cut so a certain planet or village will be left alone by the Wraith. Others just know they spare lives that way – once you know how many lives, it becomes tempting just to accept."

"Lives? Ronon what are you talking about?" John tried not to push his friend. He was still grateful that Ronon had not condemned him outright, but he needed to understand what was going on here.

"When a Wraith Lord has his full powers, enough strength to utilize them fully, he has a control over his hive, which is far greater than the one of a Queen. In effect he suppresses the more instinctive sides of the Wraith and gives the conscious side more room. Meaning the animalistic instincts of the normal Wraith vanish nearly completely and even the Drone's develop a decent amount of mental capabilities."

"But that would make them more efficient soldiers." John observed, wondering where this was going.

"Yeah, it does." Ronon confirmed. "But it also takes the instinct to feed out of the equation. The instinct, the lust to feed drives them to feed more often than they actually need. Left upon his own devices a normal Wraith feeds on ten to twelve humans per year on average. A drone takes four. Under the control of a Wraith Lord, without the instinct to feed, taking only what they need, the number usually drops to four lives per normal Wraith warrior and one per Drone."

A cold hand was creeping up John's spine. "Meaning they kill only a quarter of what they would kill otherwise." He said in a whisper. He could do the math easily enough for himself.

"I had heard of such deals," Ronon said. "Stories of that kind had been around all worlds fighting the Wraith. I had never seen a Wraith Lord, until that day."

"I remember what Todd said, that the Ancient's weapon made the High Wraith like the… what did he call it?"

"Wild Wraith." Ronon supplied. "Yeah, I believed the High Wraith to be a legend until… until I learned the hard way that this legend was for real."

"So I am like a long lasting snack for Todd?" John summed up the facts.

To his surprise Ronon scowled. "You should know by now it is not that easy."

John jumped up. "I know it, but I don't understand it. It's not like I had many facts to go on." He knew the last was a cheap shot, but his anger was hard to keep at bay.

Ronon rose too. "What did you want to hear?" he shouted back. "That I tried to hate Sherakáar as long as I could? That I told myself many a day during those long three years that I just did uphold my end of the deal? That I was horrified when I realised that I grew used to his presence? That I hated myself when I saved his life in a fight by shooting a soldier that had crept up at him from behind? That I tried to take my own life the night after?" Ronon's eyes shone with rage, with grief. "Had it not been for my oath to Sateda, for my friend Avila and for my little boy I might not have returned home." He added hoarsely. "I was closer to Sherakaár in the end, than I wanted to admit."

John stepped closer and drew his taller friend in a tight hug. "I am sorry," he whispered. "I am sorry." He repeated, his own voice growing hoarse. "I shouldn't have lashed out on you." He felt Ronon's arms coming up, enveloping him in a bone-crushing hug.

***

it was the weirdest of feelings. He knew the patient was dying. Small wonder with the procedure he'd been through. Even in a very good hospital the outcome would have been foreseeable. But Carson was not afraid of it any more. His hands over the unconscious Runner's back, he focused on the life in the dying man, on the powers unleashed inside himself. It was hard to describe, hard to understand, but inside this weird state he could feel the damage that had been done to his patient, the fresh wounds, and the scars from long ago. The light emanating from his hands went through the body, healing, repairing, cleansing away old scars, old damage. There was something else there, trickily hidden beneath layers of biochemistry: something that not really belonged here, yet the man had been born with it. In his trancelike state Carson knew he could clean away this manipulation, restoring things back to their original form.

Waking from the deep trance he had been in, the first thing Carson realised that it had actually worked. Jircanor lived, his body was healed from the manifold wounds, and his tracker, the treacherous device that had been sitting inside his spinal chord, lay on a small medical tray nearby. The second thing Carson realised that the Runner was awake. He must have woken sometime during the treatment. The dark eyes met his, the gaze projecting such a mix of emotions that Carson would not even start to decipher them. The Runner was starting to sit up, Carson at hand to steady him. "Careful, take it slow."

Jircanor sat up completely. "Did you have anyone of your people come here?" he asked in a hush.

Carson frowned. "No, your friend Syrkan left quite a while ago, to bring some things to Belkan. Why?"

"Because someone is coming." Jircanor replied. "At least ten. That direction." He pointed towards one of the corridors leading away from the hall. From somewhere down there faint footsteps echoed up, coming their way.


	18. Chapter 18: The widening gyre

_Disclaimer: I do not own the characters, names or other various parts of the SG/SGA universe and all rights are with their respective owners. This is a work of non-profit fanfiction, and no copyright infringement is intended. _

_Author's note: This chapter contains some violence, and some rather dark scenes. I do not write such scenes for the fun of it, they are in integral part of the character's journeys. I also want to point out, that the decision one of the characters makes here, is neither lightly done nor one I want to be portrait in a cavalier manner. I have refrained from describing the circumstances that bring him to the point in more gory detail, because I did not want this chapter to become a horror story._

**Chapter 18: The widening gyre**

_His glance has become so weary from pacing  
Along the bars that it can hold no more.  
It seems like a thousand bars encasing  
Him, and beyond the thousand bars, no world. _

_The soft tread of steps strong and supple  
Does in the tiniest of circles revolve,  
It is like of dance of force around a middle,  
In which, benumbed, there stands a great resolve. _

_Only sometimes like a curtain does the pupil  
Silently slide open - then an image gains entry,  
passes through members tensely still -  
and in the heart, ceases to be._

_(Rilke: The Panther)_

_For a myriad alternate translations of the poem see: _.

Dietmar barely registered that the screams ringing from the cell's walls were his own. His mind was haze of pain and dread. His body hit the hard ground of the cell, when the Wraith let go for a moment. He hardly had the strength to react and prevent his head from hitting the ground. His reflexes kicked in, the fresh pain from falling was a near welcome reprieve from the constant agony his interrogator had put him through. He tried to look up, but was unable to control the hard shakes running though his entire body. His interrogator lazily walked up to him.

Involuntarily Dietmar tensed, expecting another round of sheer agony. But the Wraith just stared down at him. "You can't fight any longer." He hissed. "So tell me: what were you doing at the supply depot."

Dietmar bit down any word that might come to his lips, allowing himself no retort nor curse. The moment he began talking to his captor, he was down a dangerous road. He knew he couldn't keep this up forever, the moment when he broke would come – but just not now. Thus he did not react to the Wraith's words at all.

His interrogator bend down and raised his hand. Another jolt of sheer agony ran through Dietmar's body, he didn't know how long it held this time. He never knew. Minutes, Moments, Ages, Hours, he had lost the feeling for them here. When the pain finally ceased, the Wraith hissed down on him. "This is getting tiresome. We are approaching the great hive. So – WHAT were you doing in the depot, human?"

Dietmar didn't react, some part of him was hoping he would die from the shocks before long. The Wraith hissed angered. "You are pitiful, human." Another jolt of pain followed the words.

Dietmar knew his strength run out, it grew harder and harder to keep silent from session to session. He had to hand it to those Wraith: they had gotten father with him, than even those crooks in Albania. And that was saying something. Yet – there was one way out remaining to him. One they would find hard to deal with. His eyes fixed on the Wraith's black boots, that were in his line of sight. Marshalling whatever strength was left to him, he gripped the boot and toppled the Wraith by pushing it sideways. It took only moments for the Wraith to come up again, and crush Dietmar into the next wall with a hard kick. The soldier bit down another scream. His battered body was a heap on the floor. But the Wraith had not realised, that he had taken the small throwing knife that had been hidden in the Wraith's boot. Dietmar remained unmoving, pretending to be close to passing out. Another hiss from outside the cell interrupted them, the interrogator turned around and stormed out of the cell.

Dietmar let go of his breath. He had not much time, they would come back. Carefully took up the knife he had taken from the Wraith. It wasn't much, the blade was not very long, but it was razor sharp. The knife left him a choice, a way out before he could break and talk. It might be cold comfort, but he would die without betraying someone.

***

Carson Beckett was crouched behind a fallen column and watched the dark figures march by. Their flashlights illuminated the area around them, before everything went dark again. He ducked deeper, when one of the beams fell on the rubble he was hiding behind. But eventually they marched on. His eyes searched the immediate vicinity, but he could not see Jircanor. New steps made him hide motionless again behind the rubble. A new patrol came this way, stopping in the middle of the corridor. They were only two, but Carson doubted he could take them out without creating a ruckus that would alert their comrades. He looked around, there had to be some way around them… He froze in place when his eyes reached the ceiling. Jircanor was balancing on a half broken support beam above and speedily made his way until he was right above the two men. Carson wasn't sure but to him it looked like Jircanor had something in his hands, knives perhaps. The runner stopped, waiting for a moment, until the two guards were calm again, then he jumped down. The blades in his hands hit down, as he landed, crushing full into the enemies' backs. Both soldiers went down with out another noise. Carson saw Jircanor yanking the blades free – it as a pair of bloody Ulaks the Runner was wielding! – and hastened over to Carson. "We have to hurry – there are more on the way." He whispered.

Carson nodded and followed the Runner down the corridor. He worried about Jircanor, though. He had been through a tremendous trauma, the healing experience included. Zarek had needed hours after the healing to overcome the aftershocks. If the Runner felt any of them, he didn't show it. Jircanor raised a hand, gesturing Carson to move the left. Carson followed the hand gesture and found a niche, large enough to hide him. He saw Jircanor jump up, vanishing in the darkness above. Another patrol passed them by without stopping. Once they were out of sight, Jircanor landed right in front of the niche. "That hybrid must have mobilised all his armies," he said in a hush.

"Hybrid? You mean Michael?" Carson asked in equally low tones. If these were Michael's troops they were in a world of trouble. Vividly Carson remembered those two years in Michael's hands.

"Don't fear – they won't get you." Jircanor pointed him to come along, but a voice out of the darkness let them freeze.

"That is a promise that you won't be able to uphold, Runner." The voice came out of the shadows of one of the corridors. From all sides troops were swarming up, blocking every way out.

Carson knew that voice. "Michael." He stepped out, siding with Jircanor. "If you want me, Michael, here I am."

The hybrid emerged from the shadows, stopping in front of his troops. "The good doctor – I can't help it – I am surprised. I had expected the Runner, but not you, Carson."

Jircanor raised his blades, falling into a battle stance. "What do you want – creature? A final death? That can be arranged."

Michael did not take the bait. "I had wanted you – to get those back I lost when the dart came for them. But as you have seen it fit to provide a replacement, I will accept." As his soldiers closed in, he stepped towards Carson, his hand raised. "Yes, Doctor – I know, I can feel it, you activated your heritage. You will be most useful to me."

Carson had no idea how Michael knew, perhaps the Ascension device altered the smell of a person? "Whatever you want – I won't live long enough to do it." And this time these words were a comfort. Michael would not be able to force him to do his bidding again.

The Hybrid chuckled. "Do you think so, Doctor?" he asked, then his eyes turned to Jircanor, who was being tied by the hybrid soldiers. "You were form Dhemarigán? The one who held the deal with Rhashiír? The Captain of the Silver?"

"And if I was?" Jircanor shot back. "You were a great Wraith once until someone took you into therapy, weren't you?"

Michael again overheard the insult. "A, good. I recall your people making honour a most serious matter. The good Doctor here saved you, didn't he? Then I strongly suggest you honour your debt and see that he does not perish or ascend on me."

***

"I will need your advice, if we are to get out of this alive." John said in low tones. He and Ronon were sitting on the floor of the cell. He did not know how long they had talked, or how long they had been silent in between.

The opening of the cell door interrupted them. Ashaviiýr was standing in the door, somewhere in the background John guessed would Sherachhvhar be too. He rose. "I guess visiting time is over?" He tried not to sound annoyed, it must be hours he had been down here.

Ashaviiýr raised one hand in an odd gesture. "No, but the strike force is returning and Lord Tarishaár requires your presence on their arrival."

John was surprised, he must have been here longer, than he had expected. "Good," he replied. He still did not feel well with the things that were happening, but he would try to handle them. He exchanged a short glance with Ronon, then followed Ashaviiýr out of the cell.

The corridors they passed were empty, as were the cells that lined them. For John it was hard to tell, if this were the same corridors they had passed hours before or not. Onboard hives he had usually used maps to get around or trusted McKay to figure out how to work the systems to get a direction at least. "Where are we going?" he asked after a moment.

"Central hangar bay." Ashaviiýr replied. "The strike force will land soon. They are already close."

John didn't need to ask how Ashaviiýr knew, he knew a thing or two about Wraith telepathy himself. "So, they are bringing him in?" he asked, more to keep the conversation flowing, than anything else.

"They do." Ashaviiýr sounded satisfied. "He tried to run, to hide, even used tricks and cunning distractions, but it did not save him."

Entering the central hangar bay John did all he could to remember the decision he had made, down in that cell. He had to play along until they could find a way out of here. Ronon had been of the same opinion, and he was John's only source of reference, the only one who had been in such a situation before. But in front of a full assembly of Wraith this was easer said than done. The Wraith group parted, allowing John to pass by, until he reached Tarishaár. "Did you find your friend well?" the Wraith Lord asked.

"As well as he can be when confined to a small space." John replied truthfully. He was glad that Todd had not killed Ronon outright.

"In this he is not unlike a Wraith warrior." Tarishaár observed.

"I wouldn't tell him that."

John would have bantered on, perhaps even enjoyed a winded discussion with the wily Wraith, but the rising of the force field interrupted him. The whole group of Wraith fell in a form, vaguely resembling a crescent, Todd at the centre of it. John came to stand close to him, having a good view on both ends of the semi-circle. The force field was only steps away from them, while the main hangar doors opened and a small Wraith ship manoeuvred in. It sat down effortlessly in the crammed space, that seemed too narrow for a ship of that size. The moment the pressure in the hangar was re - pressurized, the main ramp of the ship was lowered and troops began filing out. John studied the whole scenery silently, the longer he watched those troops, falling into formation left and right of the ramp, the more he began assessing them. They were well organised, and well trained, this he could tell without much watching. They were proud too, that was the next thing about them he realised. This was no rag-tag bunch of a Wraith gang, this was an army, and a proud one as far as he could see. The troops fell silent as their leader descended the ramp, behind him a dozen or so Wraith, the elite of his corps, probably. They dragged a chained Wraith with them. An odd mix of feelings rose inside John when he recognised the Wraith who had condemned him to becoming a Runner. Watching that Wraith, he felt a surge of anger rise inside him. Too well he remembered the day they had implanted the tracker in him, the day Anchoril had been destroyed. To this moment John had not known how much he hated this particular Wraith. Here and now he understood Ronon's wish to kill the Wraith commander on Sateda himself.

The whole troop came to a halt. Only their leader advanced three more steps, before he dropped to one knee. John was startled, that Wraith was an exact mirror image of Ashaviiýr, except for a blood-red tattoo on the left half of his face. Without it, John would have believed him to be Ashaviiýr. Even his voice was the same. John did not understand what was spoken, but the timbre of the hiss was exactly the same like Ahsaviiýr's was. Tarishaár's reply was in Wraith language too, undecipherable for John. Yet the gesture that allowed the Commander to rise was remotely clear. The Commander bowed shortly to John before he took his place at the left end of the crescent.

All eyes now were on the captured Wraith, whose eyes were flashing with undiluted hatred. Whatever he barked at Tarishaár was cut short by the guards, whose iron grip forced him down, until he was on his knees. Tarishaár waited for a moment, clearly savouring the sight, before he gave an order, followed by a curt gesture.

John was tired of not understanding a word. He glanced around and found Ashaviiýr standing only one step away, his usual watchful self. His eyes focused on the Wraith warrior, hoping that the breach of protocol he might commit wasn't too great. "What was that?"

A wry grin flicker over Ashaviiýrs features. "He is to be brought to the deep cells. His punishment will begin at the dark hour – midnight in your language." He translated.

John nodded gratefully. The ceremony seemed to be over and he had neither placed himself in a dangerous position nor made a fool of himself. "Sheppard." Tarishaár said suddenly. John turned around. The troops were already leaving, as were part of those Wraith that had greeted them here. "Celshakáar reported to me that he captured a human on the same planet. Leader of a troop who proved to be quite a distraction to my troops. He could not get any information from him until they landed." Todd's eyes flashed brightly. "The description of his weapons fits those I saw in Atlantis."

Face flashed up in John's mind. Lorne, Hawkins, Rolland, Espers, whom had the Wraith captured? Had it been a coincidence that an Atlantis team was there? "Can I see him?" he asked. "How bad is he?"

"Ashaviiýr will bring you there." Tarishaár replied. "He should be hurting, but he'll live." He turned around striding out of the Hangar.

***

Bane had been sitting motionless for hours. Hiding in the vents was really getting to his joints. Another day or so and he would complain about backaches like an old man. But eventually the guards and the visitor left. Bane grinned. Patience. One of the first things his foster father had instilled in him had been patience. The ability to wait, no matter how long. He took his knife and buried it inside the mechanism to get the vent to open up. It slid open and Bane jumped down. He had raised both hands, to defend himself, in case he landed to close to the cell's inhabitant. Being choked wasn't on his list of things to do.

But Ronon only grinned, slightly startled. "Decided to find a cell for yourself?" The Satedan asked.

Bane grinned broadly. "Breaking you out of this cell, what else? Your friend needs a rescue, before he gets lost in the maze, don't you think?"

Ronon scowled. "You listened."

"I sat in that vent for hours, waiting for your friend to leave." Bane replied. "I don't think badly of your friend." He added in uncharacteristically soft tones. "he was ill prepared."

Ronon decided to let the topic slide. The amount of irony Bane had in mass supply told him enough about the young fighter. "So, what's the grand plan?" he asked. He could come up with a dozen plans in no time, but wanted to take his young comrade in arms serious.

"I climb outside, open the door and get you out. Then we split up. You go and intercept your friend when he returns form the hangar bay. The grand reception will start soon. I sneak down the main core and provide some distraction. You grab your friend, get to the dart bay and leave this hive behind you."

Ronon had to admit, it was a solid plan. As solid as any plan for two people taking on a hive could be. "And you?" he asked.

Bane threw back his long hair. "I'll retreat to the auxiliary hangars, steal a dart there and run the other way." He replied. "Don't worry, it's not the first time for me."

"I can see that, you came to battle early." Ronon admitted. He did not like the idea, but it was a plan that just might work out. "Let's go."

Bane again climbed into the vent, the shaft was too narrow to allow a man of Ronon's stature to pass it, but it was unnecessary. Bane slipped out in the empty corridor and opened the cell door. Silently he handed Ronon two knives and stunner. It wasn't much, but better than nothing. Together they hurried through the empty cell deck, avoiding the cells with prisoners, because they were guarded and eventually reached a lift leading up. "That way up and we are on the maintenance level." Bane said.

Ronon knew this, he knew his way around hives quite well and knew the basic layout of a great hive by heart. "I know. So here's were we part? You sure about that?"

Bane nodded grimly. "I am." The way he straightened up betrayed his youth more than anything.

"You are not." Ronon observed.

"I am." Bane shot back. "there is something else… I have wanted to tell you ever since we met… but there was never time. And – ah I am not a talker."

Ronon grinned. "Me neither. So what is it?" Worst case the youth had heard of his rep as a runner, but more likely had someone he wanted to give a message to.

"The man who trained me is Satedan." Bane began speaking hastily. "He managed to get out of Sateda with a bunch of kids and youngsters before everything went straight down to hell."

"Some more survivors?" Ronon's mood lit up. Every message about another group of survivors was something he savoured. He might never join them to find a new home, but knowing that they were around filled him with a warmth, that reminded him of home.

"Aye. Avila had mostly kids with him when he made it out…"

"Avila? Did you say Avila…" Ronon did not trust his ears. Should his friend have found a way out of burning Sateda. And if he had. "Was there a boy with him?" Ronon did not manage to specify the question burning inside him. It was unlikely, so unlikely that he dared not to hope.

"You mean Avila junior, I guess? Avila Dex?" Bane asked. "Yeah he's about my age and Avila sr. says time and again he takes after his father." Now Bane grinned. "What I wanted to tell you – Avila has people on the lookout in many villages. They hear things and report back to him, it's also a place for washouts from his training. There is one among the Athosians, a guy called Athalwyn. Find him and he can guide you back to Avila." Bane looked around. "Time to go." He did not wait for Ronon but sped away in the direction that would bring him to the core areas.

***

Another cell tract this time aboard a ship. John wondered how many he would see, before this was over. Ashaviiýr walked beside him, keeping up with John's brisk stride effortlessly. They reached the cell, a typical cell like John had seen some of them on other hives. What was less fitting was the smell, one that did not belong here like that. John knew that stench quite well, he had smelled it in other places, and other times. Blood, lots of it. "Open the cell, something is wrong." He ordered.

Ashaviiýr punched the mechanism and the door slid up. In the middle of the cell John saw a human figure lying in a puddle of blood. He hastened over to the man, who lay facedown on the cell floor. The blood sprang from a neck-wound. _Suicide. He tried to kill himself._ The thought shot through his mind. _He stayed facedown, so when he looses consciousness chances are higher he suffocates. _John slipped out of the rough shirt he was wearing, pressing the cloth against the cut in the neck. "Get the healers," he barked at Ashaviiýr. "He hasn't much time left." He could feel that the body was still warm, the heart was still beating, but the man was weak. Gently he lifted the blonde head up a little, to allow the man to breathe without getting in contact with the blood on the ground. Out of the corner of his eye he saw Ashaviiýr leave, probably to get help. For the first time John was glad about his odd status among the Wraith. It might help to save this man. The clothes were a dead giveaway for someone from either Atlantis or the Daedalus.

It wasn't an easy feat to turn the man around, bringing him into a semi-stable position. All the field traning John had received during his time flying evac missions paid off, and he managed to get the wounded man to rest on the side, turned away from the blood puddle.

A sudden shake ran through the ship, accompanied by the faint echo of an explosion. John needed both hands to prevent the wounded man to slide to the side and crane his wounded neck. It turned the man's face up to him. When he saw his face, John nearly let go of the cloth he held pressed against the neck-cut. He knew this face, he had seen it in places as dark and as dire as this one. Illo. But it was impossible. How should he have come here? And how should he have fallen into the hands of the Wraith? "It can't be." John said to himself. "Illo." He had to say it aloud to make it real.

A fluttering of his eyelids told John, that he wasn't unconscious, he had heard him. "Illo… don't move. You are wounded."

"John…?" The word was nearly inaudible. Illo had no strength to talk.

"Don't try to talk." John said, trying to keep the wounded man calm. "You're going to be okay, you hear me?"

A movement in his back heralded someone tall entering. "Ashaviiýr – we can't move him. He has lost lots of blood and the bleeding only barely stopped." They needed the healers here.

"Thanks. I am no Wraith." He heard a gruff voice behind him.

John looked up. Ronon stood in the doorway, he was armed and looked ready to fight his way out of the hive. "John, time to get off this… hells, what did they do to this one?" Ronon crouched down on the other side of the wounded man. "from Atlantis?" he asked.

"He tried to kill himself." John tried to speak calmly. Illo was tough, when he had opted for the last resort, things must have been more than bad. He had even faced up that Taliban leader with his scimitar calmly. "And… I don't know how Illo got here. Or you, for that matter."

Ronon sighed. "The plan was getting out of here. Bane is creating a distraction."

"The explosion." John checked the wound again. As long as he held the cloth hard against it, he could block the bleeding, but that was all. Illo was weak, had lost much blood, he would never survive if they took him along. "Go, Ronon. Get out of here." John decided.

The tall Satedan shook his head. "No. I won't leave you behind."


	19. Chapter 19: What friends are for

**Chapter 19: What friends are for**

_You fought the way a hero fights -_

_You had no need to fear_

_My friend, but you are wounded now_

_And I'm not allowed to leave you here_

_Alive._

_(James Fenton: Out of the East)_

"Ronon – go, save yourself." John tried to reason with his Satedan friend. Ronon had come up with a plan to get out of here, faster than John would anyone expected to. How had Woolsey dubbed it once? 'The ultimate survivor.' And he should better get out of here, before Ashaviiýr returned with the inevitable reinforcements.

"My life isn't in so much a danger." The former Runner growled, while he helped John to move Illo in a stabile resting position. "And this one won't go anywhere soon. He went for the most efficient way to kill himself."

John couldn't help but shudder. All to vividly he recalled that day in that other village, and Ronon pressing a knife to his own throat, pressuring the villagers into releasing John and Teyla from captivity. He had always forced himself not to imagine what would have happened, had things gone bad. Here and now, with another friend half dead, he got a gruesome picture what death his brave Satedan friend would have died.

Heavy steps drew closer and only moments Ashaviiýr returned, with him were not only two of the Wraith healers, but also Todd. The Wraith Lord didn't seem surprised by what he saw. His eyes met Ronon's with a kind of wry amusement. "Your young friend got away." The Wraith Lord stated calmly. "He was wounded and managed to inflict only part of the damage he had hoped for."

Ronon rose to his feet. "It was a distraction."

The arching eyebrows of the Wraith Lord made abundantly clear that this was the main reason why he was here, and not down in the core sections. He had seen through the plan right away and drawn the right conclusions. But he did not discuss them any longer, but turned his attention to John. "Sheppard, you know this one?" His gesture indicated clearly whom he met.

John nodded mutely. "He tried to take his own life." He stated, still focusing on keeping the wound from bleeding more. "What did your troops do to him?" He could only guess what must have transpired to drive Illo to such a drastic decision. Even down in that asylum, fighting his way though the dwellers of that sinister place, Illo had never hesitated, never given in to despair. Neither had he when that Taliban leader threatened to mutilate him.

"They assumed he was allied with the Wraith they were send to capture, because the presence of him and his men proved quite an efficient distraction." Tarishaár replied. "So they interrogated him on the way back."

"I kinda' see that!" John's anger was getting the better of him. "And you know – they must have put him through worse than your kind usually does. I know this man, he is a friend, and I know how much he can take. More than me and he keeps his head in situations where others would have gone mad long before. So… Tarishaár what the hell did they do to him?"

"They took the memory of all the pain he knew and made him experience it tenfold." Tarishaár stepped closer until he was right opposite of Sheppard. "Had he not been so weak to try and kill himself, you all three might have made it out of here."

John froze. It had happened again. Nearly each time John and Todd had dealings with each other some things came up, usually by the actions of others, to shake whatever fragile trust there had been. The last time had not been all that long ago, when the Asuran device was activated. Why should Todd even consider that John and not been in on the escape plan from the beginning? "He wouldn't have been in any shape to run, even without trying to kill himself." He stated, he had to come up with some reasonable facts. Todd had no reason in the world to allow Illo to live.

"And yet… you estimate his ability to take pain higher than your own. You trust his ability to fight and escape more than your own." Tarishaár stated.

John's head shot up, when he realised that the Wraith must have picked up on his surface thoughts. An idea bloomed in his mind. "Read my mind." He said. "Then you'll know for yourself." He met the Wraith's gaze calmly. "Go on – you have my permission."

The Wraith's gaze grew more intense, as John felt a slight pressure on his mind. It was like Tarishaár was trying to let him know he was there, to let him know what he was looking for. John felt a rushed version of this afternoon's events running through his mind again. He left it happen, did not try to fight or hide anything. Yet, the connection wasn't one way, some jumbled pictures from Todd's mind sprang over to him. A friend – there was something that was also heavy on Tarishaár's mind. The Wraith thought of a friend, a friend trapped, a friend in need of help. Tarishaár worried greatly about this friend, feared he might die eventually or be found… found by the wrong people?

It was over as fast as it had begun. The pressure lifted and the pictures vanished again. Tarishaár hissed some orders at Ashaviiýr before speaking to John again. "The healers will take care of your friend."

***

It was a déjà vu in the worst way Carson could imagine. Again he was in a cell onboard one of Michael's ships, in the hands of the wretched Wraith hybrid. And he wasn't alone this time, Jircanor was standing close to the cell door, watching the corridor outside. "Two guards outside, several more down the hallway," he observed calmly, undeterred by the sheer numbers of the enemy.

"There won't be a way out, he always saw to that." Carson tried his best not to sound defeated. But he knew Michael had all he needed to again enforce his cooperation. "And I can't even take comfort in the fact, that I won't live much longer, because it leaves you at Michael's tender mercies." Carson had never believed he could accept his own death in such a calm manner.

Jircanor leaned back against the wall, crossing his arms in front of his chest, the posture seemed kind of habit with him, a habit deeply ingrained. "What did the hybrid man by that, anyway?" he inquired. "I know it's hardly my place to ask, but I had not recognised you as one of the true blood."

"If you mean having the ATA gene by 'being of the true blood…"

"No, but carrying the heritage of the Lanteans. You carried some of their blood, but not the true heritage." Jircanor explained.

Carson nodded. He had no idea how Jircanor knew, but perhaps he could sense it just like Michael had. "I used a device the Ancients left behind to acquire the healing abilities I needed." He tried to state this as calm as possible. It was not Jircanor's fault that this plan had gone awry.

"You actually used the stairwell of the Lanteans?" Jircanor exclaimed. "I have read of this artefact, it gets mentioned heavily in late Lantean history."

Carson sighed. "I had hoped to reverse the process, before death or ascension become inevitable."

Jircanor left his place, walking over to Carson. "You used a possibly lethal device to save me? Why?"

The question was asked with an odd mixture of awe and shock, Carson wondered what had triggered it. "I refuse to loose a patient, no matter whom." He stated firmly. "and ever since I met Ronon and learned about what Runners are… the very thought has haunted me. Nobody seemed to care whether Runners lived or died, people like Ronon abandoned and left to fight for themselves. Practically they allowed the Wraith to pretty much as they liked, to do this to you." Carson's voice grew more confident as he spoke. "I refuse to be bystander, a silent uncaring witness to murder, to cruelty. It was high time that somebody stood up and opposed them."

"Still, you risked your own life, to save the life of a stranger."

"Lad, the risk wasn't so terribly great. I knew how to reverse the process. Only Michael making a surprise entrance wasn't part of the plan."

"I guess I know what the hybrid meant." Jircanor's voice grew thoughtful.

"He actually assumed you could do something about it?" Up till now Carson had taken Michael's words as a deliberate cruelty, something to torture the warrior with.

"My people fought a war with the Lanteans, later served them and we know a thing or two about…" Jircanor's voice faltered, his expression grew puzzled. "The compulsion… it's gone."

Carson frowned. "The compulsion?" Then he remembered the so well hidden manipulation he had felt during the healing process. The hiding chain Jircanor had been born with, but that was no real part of him. It had been cleaned away during the healing process. "You mean that manipulated gene you had? It felt… detrimental to you, and I acted on that. It's hard to tell the more precise details in that state."

"You freed me." There was genuine awe in Jircanor's voice.

Carson felt a little uncomfortable having that amount of awe and admiration directed at him. "Lad, don't make too much of it. In that state I only knew it was damaging you and acted on it." Ascension was a process they hardly understood, which was why it could end deadly, Carson mused.

"No, it won't." Jircanor replied to Carson's unspoken thoughts.

Carson's eyes flew wide open. "You are telepathic?" he asked astonished. Up till now he had believed this to be a main quality of the Wraith.

"Many species in this galaxy are. Telepathy, Empathy and the ability to share and draw energies, or emotions, are a trait common to many species here in Pegasus."

The scientist in Carson couldn't help but jump at those words. They provided a glimpse of an insight into topics he had been researching ever since arriving here. "You are saying that the feedings process is not restricted to the Iratus bug and the Wraith?" The same seemed to be true about telepathy.

"There are species who share those traits, some feed on emotions, some on energy, some are just able to share the selfsame." Jircanor explained. "But we are getting off topic again."

Carson still had a myriad of questions, if he could spend the last days of his life to learn more about the questions that had been the centre of his research since the encounter with the Wraith, those last days would not be wasted. "Jircanor, what do you think can be done? The machine leaves only two options – death or ascension."

"The machine creates a potential and helps the body to move with it. The power it created can be released again, there is no power in this world to be given, that cannot be given back. It a way it means coming very close to ascending and then releasing all the excess energy. Simply put."

"It makes sense in way – it could be the same technique used to descend again." Carson said thoughtfully. "But I wouldn't know how to get there."

"I think I can help you there."

***

The Wraith healers went to work with an efficiency that made clear they knew what they were doing. John was standing close to the infirmary doors watching them silently. Illo had passed out before they had managed to bring him here. Part of John assumed it was merciful that Illo wasn't awake during the treatment, it was enough to freak out anybody. A short hissing passed between the Wraith. "Your friend will live." Tarishaár stated, translating the healer's words. "he came very close to die, but he'll make it."

"Illo is tough, a fighter." John replied.

"Illo, is that his name?" Tarishaár asked, some measure of wondering in his voice.

"I guess not." John answered after a moment. "We met twice, both times imprisoned and interrogated. We busted out both times too…"

"And you just gave him a nickname? You seem to make a habit of that." The Wraith's words were echoing his dry humour.

John didn't feel like joking. "For a long time, I wasn't even sure Illo had been real, and when I knew better… I never learned his real name."

"Dietmar Schmiedeberg." The Wraith mangled the pronunciation of the name slightly, but not enough to make it not understandable.

_Name, Rank, Number._ John could easily guess that these were things they had gotten from Dietmar. Dietmar, the name sounded foreign, like it did not really belong to Illo. "You are worrying about a friend too," he observed, his mind returning to the brief telepathic contact he had with Todd earlier on.

"I do," Tarishaár admitted.

"What happened to him?" The jumbled pieces in his mind, provided not much detail, rather general impressions, supplemented by flashing pictures, that made only partial sense.

"He was caught in a trap, caged as I was by the Genii, but for him there was no escape, no way out. He has been caught in this trap for ten thousand years, and I lack the ability to save him."

"Is this where you need my help?" John asked. Again he navigated the maze, only led by his intuition.

"Why do you even ask?" Todd hissed. "A Wraith in a cage, built by your Ancestors, why do you even care?"

The words echoed the general sentiment John had held during most of their encounters. "Because this is the one thing we truly have in common: we don't let our friends down, no matter what." And after all he had seen, John knew this to be true. "And I'll help you to get your friend out of that trap."

Tarishaár's eyes scanned him, clearly astonished. "You will? Why?"

"Because that's what friends do: they help each other out." And god help him, somewhere along the way he had found himself friends with a Wraith Lord.

***

"No tracks, no traces, Sir." Lieutenant Indriedents reported. "And no other sign of Captain Schmiedeberg. The Wraith cleared out the whole place. It's very likely they took him."

O'Neill nodded. "Have the trackers brought to the lab, McKay shall start working on them." The Lieutenant left and O'Neill was left alone. He walked out of his office, standing on the far end of the command gallery and stared down at the gate. What had gone wrong? He knew the answer, the mission had been ambushed and the Captain had covered the retreat of the team, being taken prisoner in the process. The irony wasn't exactly lost on O'Neill. Now they had two people to find, with next to no useful intel and only slim chances of locating the captured men again. Somehow it had been easier to fight the Goa'uld. Back then they had at least known where to look, where their territories were.

"General." A voice interrupted his thoughts. Teyla was standing beside him on the gallery. Her eyes too were down on the gate. "I am sure Captain Schmiedeberg is still alive."

O'Neill looked up. "I won't give up hope on the man, he is stubborn and strong. But still… he is in a hell of a situation."

Teyla nodded. "This was no food raid, no culling judging by what I heard from the returning troops, rather a squabble among the hives. So he will be taken for information."

"Interrogation." O'Neill's voice grew cold. The next time the Captain walked into an ambush and ended up in enemy hands.

"It gives us more time to find him." She hesitated for a moment. "After being threatened by Michael, my people have begun making contacts to others fighting the Wraith. Contacts and some small dealings with different groups. One of them consists mainly of surviving Satedans, and has a fairly large network around the fighting worlds. They also have very good information on the Wraith squabbles, as we learned during the last year. They warned my people a number of times, when danger was immediate. If you wish so, I will ask Hollin to contact them and see what we can find out. Perhaps they know what hives are at odds with the hive we attacked and where to find those."

O'Neill didn't need to guess that she trusted him here with something that was well hidden secret of her people, perhaps even a measure they had come with during Woolsey's tenure in Atlantis. "Teyla, every bit of intelligence helps. If they can find out anything it'll be a great help."

Teyla nodded. "I'll speak to Hollin, he is the one who knows how to contact them." Her eyes again studied O'Neill. "You worry about them." She stated.

O'Neill didn't want to deny it. "I do. I may be new this galaxy, but I have a good idea how ugly things can get easily enough." He replied. "Usually when things went straight down to hell it was me out there, bitching about my CO and the decisions made by the higher ups… but I always could fight, come up with a plan or rely on my team to find a way out of the mess. And I was alright with it, the danger included. But…" He took a deep breath. "I talked both of them into it, Teyla. Sheppard and Schmiedeberg, both are here because of me. Hell, I didn't leave Sheppard much chances, I knew his career was screwed and I hardly left him a way out, because the expedition needed him. And Schmiedeberg, the moment he heard that Sheppard was MIA, he was in, no questions asked. I brought both of them here."

"And both of them accepted the risks." Teyla pointed out. "John considered Atlantis home, I do not know much about the Captain, but he seemed more thrilled than frightened about being in another galaxy."

O'Neill didn't steer his gaze away from the gate. "I truly hope so Teyla. For me the gate was a salvation, a complete start over. I left all the other life behind, and began anew. No matter what this galaxy threw at me, it was still far better than what had happened before. And… and I assumed it might do the same for others."

Teyla smiled. "And it did. John thrived during his years in Atlantis. This is why he was willing to break all the rules necessary to rescue Atlantis time and again. It is his home. And no matter what – we will bring them home."

***

Night onboard the Wraith hive, the lights changed with the cycles of ship's day and night. John could tell be the lighting that midnight was approaching fast. The day had been already long and it was far from over. Striding through another corridor of the ship, he eyed his constant companion Ashaviiýr. The Wraith warrior had returned to his duties earlier during the day and John had nearly become accustomed to his presence. "Who will be there?" he asked.

"Everybody who is not on duty, I'd say." Ashaviiýr replied. "Everybody wants to see the scumbag thrown into the pit."

John took a deep breath, he knew what lay ahead tonight and while he did not feel much remorse for seeing that Wraith die, he didn't look forward to another Wraith ceremony tonight. And it seemed the Wraith would not just leave it at a simple execution. Which made him nervous. The situation in the hangar had taught him caution when it came to those ceremonies.

Suddenly Ashaviiýr stopped, standing opposite of Sheppard, he might have been towering over him, but he tried clearly to leave Sheppard enough space. His eyes searched Sheppard's mien for some moments. John had no idea what made the Wraith hesitate. Eventually Ashaviiýr spoke. "Sheppard, remember – you don't go into this hall as a prisoner, you go there as the brother of Lord Tarishaár, as one of us in a way. There is nothing you have to fear there."

Astonished John blinked at the Wraith, he had hardly expected Ashaviiýr to go out of his way to encourage him. "I just hate ceremonies, no matter with whom or where."

They walked on, a grand door opened before them and John saw a huge hall of long oval shape. On all sides John saw Wraith assembled, the whole crew of this hive and perhaps some more ships, he guessed. Like in the hangar, Tarishaárs Officers formed a crescent on the upper end of the hall, with Tarishaár at the centre. With a small, nearly invisible gesture, a small move of the fingers, Ashaviiýr pointed John to the same position he had taken in the hangar earlier that day. John strode on, pretending to be far more confident and comfortable than he felt. He saw that there was no ground in the middle of the hall, but a big hole that opened up to another level of the ship. He could see some pointed spires down there, as far as the odd green light down there allowed him to see at all. What other dangers might be hidden down there, he could only guess. So this was "the pit."

The hall fell silent as the doors opened again and the guards brought in the prisoner. John felt a cold jolt running through him. He still could not be in the presence of this Wraith without feeling anger rise in him. During the time he had been running he had seen this one a number of times, he had been down with his troops on some occasions, and had spearheaded the culling on Anchoril.

The guards stopped, keeping a tight check on the prisoner. The chained Wraith barked a string of angry words, John did not understand. Turning his head to the side, he cast a questioning glance at Ashaviiýr.

"Some mockery, some insults." Ashaviiýr said in a hush. "He is daring Lord Tarishaár to kill him here and now."

Tarishaár eyed the captured Wraith coldly, before he began to speak. Again John turned to Ashaviiýr for a translation of what was said. "He is stating, why the captive is here. That by raising a hand against you, he raised his hand against a brother, and thus against Lord Tarishaár himself." Ashaviiýr translated. Tarishaár raised his voice and at his words a thunderous shout rose among the watching crowd. "The captive is sentenced to death in the pit."

John could feel the energy in the hall, this whole crowd of Wraith was looking forward to the spectacle, that would follow. He should be disgusted by it, but he could not find it in himself.

On a curt gesture of Tarishaár another Wraith stepped forward, on his open hands presenting two blades. Two curved, complicated long daggers.

The captive Wraith laughed in a bark. "You think one of your warriors will kill me to avenge your brother, Wraith Lord?" He laughed again hoarsely. Ashaviiýrs hiss didn't need a translation, it projected the anger more than clearly. John remembered what he had already learned about this whole thing, his eyes met Tarishaárs, and with a sudden clarity he knew what to do. It might mean crossing another line, but at this point he wasn't sure if he had lines left to cross. He left his place, walking confidently into the centre of the scene, taking the two daggers from the waiting Wraith, who then silently stepped back. Silence had fallen on the hall. Only the captive Wraith smirked. John turned around, walking back some steps, before offering the blades to Ashaviiýr. The Wraith warrior's eyes lit up, like glowing embers. He accepted both blades from John, a short inclining if his had, like a silent acknowledgment. The captive Wraith's smirk faltered somewhat, as Tarishaár ordered. "Send him down!"

The guards did exactly that, losing the chains and hurling him down into the pit. Surprised as he might be, the Wraith landed on his feet, down in the misty green light of the pit. Rising up he broke off the top of one of the spires, raising it like a blade. Ashaviiýr didn't loose time, crossing the short distance to the rim, he jumped down himself, landing not so far from his enemy. An encouraging shout rose from the spectators: the fight had begun!

John watched the fight unfold with a fascination that surprised him himself. Both fighters were Wraith, strong enough to hurl an opponent across the room, both were swift and able to jump far higher than humans could. The traps in the pits, be it spears rising from the ground, the floor collapsing or blades flying out of a wall, provided additional hazards. John could see from the beginning, that Ashaviiýr didn't go for a fast kill, but for something more elaborate. That he could event think of trying something like that, spoke highly of his abilities as a fighter. Still, for a long time it looked like both warriors were evenly matched. With some more strength on the captives side and more swiftness on Ashaviiýr's. The captive's makeshift dagger landed a long slash in Ashaviiyr's side, only moments later Ashaviiýr kicked his opponent into one of the spear traps, causing him multiple injuries. A loud cheering howl from the crowd, accompanied that move. John looked around, the Wraith had gathered around the pit, watching the fight intently. Shouts, laughter and outright hissing cheers accompanied the battle. Was he imagining things, or did some of them bet on the outcome? The fight went back and forth, but slowly Ashaviiýr gained ground, as his opponent suffered more wounds and began to slow down. Ashaviiýr used the advantage to deliver one blow after the next. Systematically he weakened his opponent down, chasing him mercilessly through the pit. He obviously knew the layout of the traps, because he made efficient, very efficient use of them. Eventually Ashaviiýr picked up a spear from a trap, with one magnificent throw he nailed his opponent on the wall. The Wraith screamed, then his body began to sag.

John knew it was over. Some part of him noted that he should be disgusted by the gory spectacle down there, but still… he couldn't help feeling a tremendous relief when he saw the Wraith die. Suddenly he understood what Ronon had felt on Sateda, why he had hugged Carson, there and then he had truly know he was free again. And so was John. When Ashaviiýr climbed out of the pit again and handed him the two bloody daggers, John did not hesitate to accept them.


	20. Chapter 20: On the road to Vallombrosa

**Chapter 20: On the road to Vallombrosa**

"_Behold the monster with the pointed tail_, _Who cleaves the hills, and breaketh walls and weapons, __behold__ him who infecteth all the world."_

_(Dante: Canto 17)_

The void stretched endlessly, Carson could not see beyond it. The swirling mists hid everything around him. He still knew where he was, or when for that matter. Some part of him, a newly awakened part knew the void, knew the path through the emptiness. It helped Carson to navigate this place, to find a path through what seemed eternity itself. Part of him saw in awe and wonder this place, that connected to everything else, this eternity that enveloped the world itself and part of him wanted to run, these things were never meant for humans to be known.

A light broke through the mists, parting them, the warmth enveloping Carson. He smiled. He knew he had come to the right place. The light grew warmer, inviting him to follow, to loose himself inside it. Carson raised his head. "I can't." he said. "I can't go with ye'." Amazing and wondrous as this place might be – he did not belong here.

A comfortable prickling ran through his body, as the light seemed to smile. A silent question – far more than a question, more complex than simple words could express – asked if he was sure, if he really wanted to leave.

"I am." Carson replied. "I came to give back what was never mine to begin with." He was afraid to have to navigate the emptiness alone, but this fear did not make him turn back.

A calm feeling flooded through him, like a voice whispering "Fear not." From afar. And Carson did not need to doubt it. He raised his hands towards the light, bracing for the pain that would inevitably come. But instead a cool stream, like water from a mountain river enveloped him, washing away the changes.

The emptiness stretched further and further. There was no light anymore, no orientation. Only darkness, and empty space. Icy emptiness closing in on him. Looking around, he did not know where to turn to, until he heard the voice, echoing from a distance:

"_Your road is your own_

_though far from it you travel_

_the night that beckons on the horizon cannot be escaped_

_do not fear the road into the darkness for there will be a light."_

Without hesitation Carson followed the voice and fell…fell out of the darkness, out of the emptiness, back to the cell onboard Michael's ship.

***

"So where are we headed?" John asked. It was the day after the execution and the great hive had jumped to hyperspace some hours previously. John had learned by now to estimate the travelling speed of the ship by the soft vibrations running through the walls. After some time even a hive became familiar, or so he guessed. "Where was your friend tapped?"

"The planet is close to the moonflower nebula, on the far edge of the former Lantean territory. One of their old strongholds." Todd replied, on a gesture of his hand, a map became visible on one of the stations. "During the great war this world was the Headquarters of the most successful of the Lantean Leaders, he was highly disputed among his own people, but one of the most effective commanders we encountered back then. He was at odds with the Lantean Council about leaving this galaxy, he wanted to stay and fight, to protect the seeded worlds."

John studied the map with some interest. Like always, when details of the Lantean war came up, he was curious. And this sounded far more reasonable than other things he had heard about it before. "Sounds like he was a good guy." He said without thinking. The realised whom he was talking to. "Not to you I guess." He added.

Tarishaár's eyes lit up in humour. "He was a great adversary. I fought against him in five battles and numerous skirmishes and I came to respect him." Another map more detailed map appeared. "During the last days of the war, Cyphaar led a strike force of our best into the stronghold, because we had learned that General Lucian had gotten his hands on a new terrible weapon and was ready to deploy it."

"Let me guess: you walked into a trap, there was no weapon, but a well prepared ambush." John concluded, the strategy was obvious to him.

Tarshiaár laughed. "I see why some of the people you encountered came to see you as Lucian Tamarkhan reborn," he observed.

John scowled. "Not another 'of the true blood' issue. It's just some coincidence." And the words reminded him keenly of Jir who had been left behind. Much as John tried to trust the other Runner's abilities to escape, he could not help to fear he might not have made it.

"So you happened to be born with the legacy, happened to became a soldier and happened to be send to another galaxy, where you happened to do all the things you did? Now what is the probability of that?" Tarishaár asked.

"If you put it like that..." John decided to change the topic. "So, your friend has been in that trap for ten thousand years? Can he have survived that long?"

"The trap is not a cage, but a rather specialised cryo-chamber, designed to hold one of our kind. The chamber won't release him, except if commanded through the command chair of the stronghold. And there are extra measures in place, to prevent any Wraith from freeing Cyphaár. Originally the trap was intended to catch us all, the whole strike force, but Cyphaár saved the rest of us."

"Getting caught himself in the process." John knew that situation himself all too well. "So I guess you need me to sit in the chair and open the chamber?"

"And to open the way to the chair in the first place. I know where it is, because I know the layout of the fortress, but the chair chamber along with the control centre had been locked down completely." Tarishaár explained, another map appearing on the display, this time a detailed map of the stronghold complex.

John intently studied the map, it looked like it was an ancient stronghold that was still largely intact. What other things, wonders and troubles might be inside it? "Looks like there is one direct route to the control centre and the chair room, from up here," he pointed to one of the upper entrances. "Has the place a name?"

"Vallombrosa," Todd replied. "And the upper entrance was damaged during the last days of the war, the main entrance General Lucian secured with some complex mechanisims, that can only be deactivated by the chair, so we will have to use this entrance on the east side and make our way from there."

John nodded at the name, relieved not to encounter some other mythological reference along the way, he focused on the planning.

***

When Carson woke next, he was still in the cell but his senses had returned to normal. "Easy, this was not an easy journey for you." Jircanor was sitting on the cell's floor beside him.

Slowly Carson sat up, he felt more than a little sore. "Aye," the memory of what had happened came back to him like one big flood of pictures and impressions. He didn't feel ready to talk about it, not now, perhaps not ever. "Did anything happen while I was out?"

Jircanor pointed his head to the door. "A guard looked in half an hour ago, so I guess the hybrid will be down here in no time."

"I see you have the Dhemarigán honour, but none of their politeness." The doors slid open and Michael entered the cell.

"Speak of the devil." Carson struggled to his feet, Jircanór had gotten up too. "What do you want this time, Michael?" He still feared the Hybrid, that had held him captive for more than two years, but was unwilling to give in to his fear.

"My experiments have hit a dead end, Doctor." The hybrid replied. "Something that neither your theories nor mine could solve. There is only one way to acquire the answers I seek: I must go back to the first ones."

Jircanor arched an eyebrow. "Does this gene therapy you underwent come with damage to the brain? The Lanteans destroyed all of the first ones before they left Pegasus. Had only one of them survived this galaxy would be in one hell of a trouble."

Carson wasn't sure if he liked how this sounded, and having two people around who were better up in the history of this galaxy than him, didn't make things easier. "What are the first ones?" he inquired. He needed more facts to go on.

"The first ones were the first Lantean warriors to be completely changed by the Iratus infection." Jircanor supplied the information needed at once. "Not just changed a little, or going half bug on the way, but those who really became the first great Wraith. There were never more than a dozen or so of them, but with their ability to manipulate, convert and change nearly all others who where Iratus infected they are more or less the key of the Wraith evolving from a random infection to a full species. The Lanteans killed them during the war."

"They could manipulate and change those who were infected with Iratus DNA?" Carson asked, he had studied the changeable and adaptable Iratus DNA for so long, and always felt he lacked part of the basic knowledge to understand the tremendous changes it had undergone from the bug to the Wraith species.

"Right." Jircanor confirmed. "They converted many of the bug-infected cases to something akin to Wild Wraith and are most responsible for the existence of the High Wraith. History even claims they could convert a Wild Wraith, if he had sufficient strong other DNA into a High Wraith by somehow sharing their own Lantean genetic material. But that doesn't change the fact, that the Lanteans went to great pains to take the First Ones out of the equation. General Lucian practically hunted them down."

"You would know about that, Captaine of the silver, wouldn't you?" Michael asked eying the Runner predatorily. "Your face still carries the features your bloodline."

Jircanor's gaze might have burned the Hybrid to ashes and swept him into the dustbin. "If you mean that two of my ancestors served under great General, than you are right. Oh – I forgot you might have been around yourself at the time. Where did they kick your Wraith arse?"

Carson wanted to warn Jircanor, to not rouse Michael's anger. The Runner seemed perfectly willing to get himself into a spot of trouble. But he saw the cautionary glance Jir cast him and suddenly understood. The Runner presented himself as the obvious target for any grudges the hybrid might hold and want to vent. Yet the hybrid only smiled wryly. "Ah – I forgot, the oath of the Dhemarigán. How was it put? _To obey without question, to fight any enemy, and to give your live without hesitation or regret for Lantea, now in all times to come._ I hope you still stand by it."

Carson stepped between the hyrid and the runner. "What do you want Michael?" He wasn't willing to let Michael play further games.

"One of the first ones survived. Trapped inside an ancient stronghold, General Lucian intended to use him as a bait, before the decision to evacuate was made." Michael elaborated. "And this one is still alive, captured in a stasis pod inside an Ancient facility. And you Dr. Beckett will help me to get him."

A great cold seemed to rush in on Carson. If Michael got his hands on this "first one", then he would create monsters far worse than ever before. "And if I refuse?" he asked.

"Oh – then we'll have to find out how strong the Capitaine here stands by the oath of his ancestors." Michael replied nonchalantly.

Jircanor threw his head back, barking a laugh. "Get started hybrid," he dared Michael. "Let's put your threads to some test."

"No!" Carson intervened firmly. "I'll do it." God help him, he could not sacrifice the live of another man, to just resist Michael.

***

"Hey, big guy." Entering Ronon's cell John found his friend pacing. He knew Ronon had neither been hurt nor harmed, but seeing it for himself was an entirely different thing.

"John." Ronon stopped pacing. "How's your friend?" The Satedan had been brought back to his cell before Illo had been brought up to the infirmary.

"I'm on my way to see him." John explained. "Want to tag along?" It had taken some convincing to actually get Tarishaár to agree to this. But the Wraith knew that Ronon usually obeyed Sheppard's orders and was willing to trust John on that matter.

The Satedan didn't much of an explanation, he just nodded and followed John out of the cell. He did not react to Ashaviiýr's presence in any way, clearly not surprised to see the Wraith warrior. "So what's coming next?" he asked, as they walked up the corridor.

"Todd has a friend trapped in some Ancient facility," John explained. "we are en route to the planet as we speak and I will help getting him out." It felt odd to talk about it like that, but luckily Ronon had been where Sheppard was standing now, before and knew what it meant.

"Good." The Satedan replied.

John was grateful that Ronon did make it easy for him, accepting the decision as it was, trusting him still. He knew he could rely on his friend, no matter what. "Thanks, bug guy."

They reached the infirmary doors. A short hissing exchange between Ashaviiýr and the healers followed. Ronon grinned suddenly broadly. "Looks like your friend pulled through and is up and about." He said to John.

"You understand their language?" John asked astonished. He felt stupid enough as it was, relying on Ashaviiýr to translate forth and back.

"I lived like that for three years." Ronon said in lower tones. "After some months I was tired of not understanding and having someone translate all the time. So I learned their language. Speaking is harder than understanding, until you get the hang of it."

John could hear so much that remained unsaid in these words. After the short time he had been here himself, he could begin to imagine what those three years had been to Ronon. How much they might have changed him. A friendly clap on the shoulder, was the only answer he felt save to give.

Inside the infirmary John saw that Illo really was up and about again. Whatever the Wraith healers had done with him, had cured the damage in no time. It felt a little odd to see him sitting there, on the same 'bed' he had lain on yesterday. John could clearly see the changes in Illo, small details that spoke of the years gone by. "Illo?"

The blonde man looked up. "John? So this was not a dream." He stated. "I wondered if it was me who was hallucinating for a change."

Their two previous encounters echoed in those words. What perverse fate had thrown them into prison and torture together time and again? John wondered. "What are you doing here, Illo?" was the first question that came out. "I mean out here."

A wry smile lit up on Illo's features. "I had a small adventure last year, in Greenland. Was up there for arctic training, when we observed a huge crash on one of the barren glaciers. And suddenly the American's at Thule airbase get all hush-hush, and we get told it's a test plane that came down hard. But then some of our group get kidnapped by a guy calling himself Baal and the answers the American General who came in to manage the mess, wear thin. Well, we got our people back and killed Baal, but were asked to sign a stack of confidentially papers." He leaned back, using his hands to support him slightly. "The very same General marched into our barracks close to Calw some weeks ago, with a proposal for me to join an international contingent, the whole thing super top secret. Wants me to stand in for a Lt. Col who went MIA, turns out that guy was named John Sheppard."

John blinked. "You came to search for me?" He could imagine that the SGC had recruited Illo, he was a capable man, perhaps a tad to ruthless at times, but that he had come out here to search for John.

"Hey, you saved my life, twice." Illo replied. "So what do we do about our resident ghosts?"

Now it was John's turn to tense. Ronon might understand the situation, because he had been confronted with a High Wraith before. But how was he to explain to Illo, who had been interrogated by the Wraith, tried to kill himself before he could give up vital information? "It's complicated." He began. "I have come to some understanding with the Wraith leader…"

"If you were the one who found me…" Illo winced. "then you had enough authority to order someone about."

So he had heard some of what had transpired. John knew he should have anticipated this, Illo had only blanked out halfway to the infirmary. "Todd… Tarishaar and me have a history." He began anew. "We met in a Genii dungeon, both of us tortured in a way…"

"And you became friends."

"More like an uneasy truce, in the beginning." John went on. "None of our next encounters went precisely as planned and… bottom line is – I have an understanding with Tarishaar now, and a measure of trust exists on both sides." It sounded still hollow, especially when he thought of what the Wraith commander had put Illo through. "I won't excuse what they did to you…"

"But your agreement with them is greater than this, isn't it?"

"Yeah. I agreed to help Tarishaar to get one of his friends out of a mess." John finished bracing for the outbreak that had to come. _Traitor_ was perhaps the word he feared most.

But Illo just jumped from his sitting position to his feet. "Sounds like a plan." He replied. "Where do we start?"

"You.. you are okay with it?" John was somewhat startled, he had expected many reactions, but not this.

Illo's grey eyes focused on John. "I trust you," he said calmly. "if you say, this is the best plan we can get, then we go for it."

***

"General O'Neill?" Teyla knocked a second time on the frame of the office door.

The greying man looked up. "Teyla, come in." He rose behind a stack of papers. "What brings you here?"

"I have spoken to Hollin, and he again talked to our contact, who in turn contacted his brethren." Teyla summed up the activity of the last two days. "And as it turns out they have recently heard of John and Ronon. But, well they want to talk to directly."

O'Neills tiredness was gone all of sudden. "Who is this contact? And what do they have in mind for the meeting?" he inquired.

"If you wish so, you can meet our contact yourself." Teyla stated, she had to wrestle this agreement from Hollin, and had been surprised herself at their contact's identity. "And then we can discuss the details of the meeting."

"Very good." O'Neill nodded. "we had gate contact with Earth earlier that day and have Lorne back. He is only cleared for light duty, but he'll be in on the meeting too."

Teyla beamed at the news. Lorne had become a trusted friend during that tough last year. "I was under the impression that Earth was unable to establish contact over such long a distance since the gateway bridge was lost." she observed nevertheless.

O'Neill raised his hands in an helpless gesture. "In some accident with an Ancient repository some years back, somebody…ehm constructed a device to power the gate for a one time contact to an extragalactic gate in the Asgard galaxy. Carter had a look at the whole construction and found a way to build more of them." O'Neill would never have told anyone, that Carter had teased him about those devices being dubbed OPC's by the gate technicians. O'Neill's power cell.

The meeting was set up only an hour later in Teyla's quarters. Most of their down there O'Neill had used to bring Lorne up to speed again. The Major had taken in most of the information silently, asking questions now and then. Teyla awaited them at her doorstep. "Please come in General; Evan it is good to have you back."

Both men entered the quarters, aside from Teyla only one other person was present. O'Neill recognised the young man at once. Athalwyn. He was standing close to the window, like he was watching the sea outside. For a moment O'Neill wanted to ask what he was doing here, but then he remembered what Rodney had said about the youth. _When they found him by the gate ten months ago, they believed him to be a runner, judging by the way he reacted. _"You are our contact, I take it? To the surviving Satedans?"

"The Satedan blades, yes." Athalwyn turned around, facing them directly.

"So your people know something about John's whereabouts?" Teyla asked again, up till now Hollin had done all the talking to Athalwyn.

"When Hollin asked me at first, I'd have said no, because if I had heard something I would have probably told you a long time ago." Athalwyn explained. "But when I contacted the others, I found out that Bane had just come in again, when he heard the names John and Ronon he jumped ten feet high. He had met them only days ago."

O'Neill listened up. "So this Bane has met them? Where?"

Athalwyn shook his had. "He'll tell you himself. That kind of information is rarely given to watchers like me."

"Don't they trust you?" O'Neill would usually not have asked, but it was necessary to understand the position their contact held with the organisation behind it.

"No, but because I am not a Satedan blade. I failed." A bitter smile flickered on Athalwyn's features. "I am not Bane, who killed his first Wraith before he was fourteen, I froze up in my first real fight and needed rescuing, so I was out." He took a deep breath. "Information of importance is only given to those who can handle themselves in a fight and are able to deal with the Wraith accordingly."

"So, where does 'Bane' want to meet us?" O'Neill asked next. If a capable youth like Athalwyn had washed out of that Satedan training, it meant it was aimed at producing a very tough fighter at a very young age. O'Neill had seen and heard enough about the way the Jaffa trained their youngsters, to understand that kind of warrior mentality, even as he did not always like it.

"On Belkan, as you already know the world and it is as safe one can ask for these days."

***

"It may look like it's a milk run, but with Ancient facilities, it is always advisable to be cautious. We found more surprises in Atlantis than we cared to count." John's words were mostly for Illo's sake, who had the least experience with Ancient tech and building.

Illo's eyes were still on the map sketch John had shown him. "The place is a maze. Should we encounter unfriendlies inside we'll be in a nice mess."

"As far as Todd could tell me, Vallombrosa has been left alone every since the Lantean war ended." John replied. It was good to sit with Ronon and Illo and prepare for the mission ahead. For the first time he felt somewhat on safe grounds again.

Illo's head shot up. "Vallombrosa?" he asked. "Like in 'Valley of Shadows', huh?"

John shrugged. "I think there is a poem with a name like that, but I could be wrong." He hadn't given it much thought.

"Thick as autumnal leaves that strew the brooks in _Vallombrosa.__" Illo quoted. "Milton. And literally translated Vallombrosa means 'Valley of shadows'."_

_Ronon rubbed his chin, thoughtfully. "Why do I have a bad feeling, whenever one of your Earth legends comes up?"_


	21. Chapter 21: Rising from the ruins

**Chapter 21: Rising from the ruins**

_If I don't return,_

_I shall leave a message for you_

_Carved in stone_

_(Leaves Eyes: Twilight sun)_

The white light of the dart beam swept over the ground and John found himself standing on a green hillside. At his back he knew Ronon and Illo, both ready for any nasty surprises that might crop up. All three of them had been given their weapons back before being beamed into the dart's system. Only steps away Tarshaár materialised with a group of Wraith warriors. A third group appeared on the other side. John cast a short look at the fourth traveller in their own group: Ashaviiýr. "Looks like the coast is clear." He knew this meant next to nothing, their real troubles would begin inside the ancient stronghold.

Tarishaár pointed ahead. "There it is." Half a mile to the east the fortress rose up from another hill. Graceful walls and spires were clear indicators of ancient architecture, while other parts of the construction looked foreign. Perhaps it was only because it was the first fortress of Lantean design John saw. It was an impressive building, that much was sure.

Their way up to the fortress followed a steep slope, turning further south. Eventually they stood right beneath the high walls. Half vanished in the ground, John saw something which might constitute as a hatch, close to the ground. One of the Wraith removed a stonelike panel from the walls, laying bare a mechanism with three crystals, looking like the door locks on Atlantis. Interested John watched how the Wraith bridged those crystal with a small metal rod, they glowed intently and the hatch opened. The first group moved in, securing the entrance, then signalling them to follow. John followed, diving below the hatches narrow frame and into the dark corridor before him. He blinked, trying to adjust to the shadowy interior, everything was a blur.

"_Eagle, two Cloud-owls are closing in on you," Lucian had hardly any time to deliver this warning, fl__ying through the shrouds of debris took all skill he could muster. Jandhyr had left only junk of the six darts. Right now he drove his fighter through a spiralling attack on another swarm. Lucian drove the machine into a tight spin, avoiding a swarm of rockets coming their direction. Only one of them came close, before being vaped by Jandhyr. "We need to get rid of that hive." _

_Lucian silently agreed with his wingman, the hive was their main trouble. Evading another cloud of debris he correct course and drew the fighter to maximum speed. It was the fifth battle in as many weeks they were fighting at the rift, and the new tactic began to pay off. Their enemy still had trouble to adapt to the new tactic that cost him more capital ships than he had ever lost before, while they themselves rarely had any of their few greatships in these battles. Lucian manoeuvred his fighter, a lightarmored Seraph, through a heavy fire zone, vaping another pair of darts with his canons. Several others were blocking their path, but relying on the speed and agility of the Seraph he breaks through. Jhandyr follows his fighter, type Sunflower is heavier and less agile but can take much more damage. This is Lucian's battlefield: the wide skies, full of fire, explosions and blinding light, enemies moving at lighting speed, fire smashing whole formations within moments, debris and junkyards, graves of the fallen, yet deadly traps for anyone who comes close. And when he's piloting his fighter through these dogfights, there isn't a real separation between him, his fighter and the burning skies outside. They melt into something unique, something he can't describe or even name. But it still is the place where he belongs._

_He drew a very tight spiral around the enemy flagship, Jandhyr matching up in speed and trajectory. Down there, the twisted form of the hive ship glowed in the light of the nearby sun. The race parallel to the hull, targeting crucial systems close to the outer hull. Two of his mini drones smash the port stabilisers, only moments before Jhandyr delivers the death blow by precisely taking out the main exhaust port. The first heavy explosions rocked the hive ship as the port thrusters were catching fire. It doesn't need much communication between them, they pick up speed, getting away from the dying hive, another group of darts dead ahead of them. In the back he hears the com messages running through. "….heavy carbon scoring on the outside, seems inoperable." "…group of darts incoming! Get out of there," "Steady," Helion's voice cut in. "Condor, you get Shadow out of combat zone, the rest is with me." A shriek and a curse ended in crackling static. Lucian knew that the group of darts was the same one, that they were approaching too.. "Eagle, this is Katana, we have them between us." _

_A cloud of explosions and debris shook Lucian's fighter as he made his way through the battle formation of dart's. Closing in on the group form both sides, they raced through them, leaving only fire and explosions behind them. Lucian could tell by his shield readings, that he had done this too often already. "Bloodraven, negative on Great hive, repeat: negative on Great hive, break off!" Helion's shout was twice as loud and startled Lucian. Below them a drama ensued. A lone fighter, one of the Sunflowers, was chasing after the fleeing Great hive that was obviously trying to escape to a distance where it could jump to hyperspace._

"Sheppard, what happened?" John found himself sitting on the ground, Tarishaár right in front of him.

"I don't know…" John rubbed his neck. How had he managed to blank out so completely? "I saw… like a fighter battle… in space. I don't know." He struggled back to his feet. It wasn't the first time some part of ancient tech got to him. "let's move on."

The corridors seemed to stretch endlessly, crossings, partings and junctions changed with stairwells and longwinded passages. Throughout the outer layers of the city, the Wraith had little problems making their way without help. Doors and other systems were opened by them with a routined ease that left John baffled. When they reached another long stairwell, Ashaviiýr, who had been scouting ahead, turned to John. "Up there, the great doors, we'll need you to open them."

John frowned. "You seem to be doing fine." He replied, his eyes scanning the area, he was uneasy in this place. He had the feeling of being watched and it grew stronger.

Ashaviiýr grinned. "As you humans say: this is like in old times." He withdrew his knife from a mechanism he had jammed with the blade. "But up there – that's the doors to the very heart of the fortress, and they saw to it, that we didn't get in."

"You have been here before – during the war?" John asked, he had come to accept that there were Wraith that had survived the ten thousand years since the Lanteans left this Galaxy, but now he began wondering how many there actually were.

"All of Lord Tarshaárs troop commanders, and many of his elite warriors are veterans of the great war." Ashaviiýr moved out, sliding up the stairs. On his gesture John followed, Ronon followed, covering his six. The great doors were actually that: a huge double door with a key mechanism at the side. The mechanism was double long than the usual door locks were. John walked up to the mechanism, swiping his hand over it. The controls glowed brightly and the door slid open.

"_Eastern tower and caverns have been swept, Sir, as have the upper levels of the Vinjamar-bastion." The report on the com was short, to the point and that where his troops had swept through, no Wraith remained, went without saying. _

"_Good work, Helion, move your teams to Ucraym-bastion and assist Hephays there, he hasn't tracked down the strike team there fully." Lucian didn't allow any anger to creep into his voice. It was a minor embarrassment that a Lantean commander didn't get the job done, and needed assisting form the Dhemarigán. Not that is was the first time. Lucian was painfully aware that his own people bred true warriors only on rare occasions, they had scientists, diplomats, and any number of very enlightened beings, but when it came to efficient soldiers, good commanders or outright warriors, millennia of evolution were more of a hindrance then a help. He did not allow himself any more musings, they had a Wraith strike force in the fortress and needed to take them down. "Jhandyr, report." He called for one of his best, most trusted Dhemarigán fighters._

"_I am trailing the Wraith strike team," Jhandyr's response was low, he had toned down his com. "they are falling back, after unsuccessfully trying to break into the tower. They'll rendezvous with their troops and drones in the south courtyard in about ten minutes, if they keep up the pace."_

"_Very good, once I give the signal, you have free hand to take down their leader. He is to fall, no matter what the cost." Lucian ordered. Waiting calmly for the estimated time to pass by, he checked on the progress in the other parts of the fortress. He did not even need to check the time, to know when the moment came. He switched channels, contacting the troops. "Listen up, people! The rats are heading back to their den. That mean: it's clean up time! All squads move in on southern courtyard!" They'd move in from all sides, all tunnels, the caverns and some would be set down by gateships. The Wraith were trapped. Tapping back into command channel, he contacted Jhandyr. "The torch is falling, take him down." He gave the code and the order, knowing it would be followed without hesitation. "And… Jhandyr, try not to get caught in the crossfire." _

John found himself halfway down to the floor, supported by Ronon. "What's happening here?" The Satedan growled. John felt a hand gripping the side of his head and a flashlight shining directly into his eyes.

"Pupils are widened, heightened state of anxiety, heavy perspiration and hyperventilation. If I didn't know better, I'd say he's on crack." Illo observed dryly.

John freed himself from the grip and leaned against the wall. "I keep having hallucinations… or I don't know if they are hallucinations… it's about some Lanteans fighting the Wraith, in space, down here in the fortress. One General Lucian, some guy called Jhandyr, another called Helion."

"General Lucian was in command of this stronghold during the war, I told you of him." Tarishaár had joined them, gesturing his troop to secure the perimeter around them.

John nodded. "Yeah, remember that. Those others? Jhandyr, Helion are from that war too?"

Tarishaár cast a glance to Ashaviiýr, indicating a question. The wraith warrior nodded an affirmative and said: "Jhandyr…. That was the commander of the Dhemarigán in the fortress, if I recall it right. Don't ask which one, the fortress had at least four of them die in battle. Helion - could have been his second in command."

The explanation helped a little. "So I am seeing things from the past?" John rubbed his temples. "Why"

"I do not know, Sheppard." Tarishaár replied. "I had not expected you to react to this place so strongly."

Ronon scowled. "Could it be the ghosts of the Ancestors? That they communicate with John?" he guessed.

Tarishaár chuckled. "Only if he were from a direct bloodline."

The central spire was lying in darkness, that was only scarcely punctuated by the Wraith lights. John wished they had brought some decent flashlights, but remembered that the Wraith saw better in the dark than in bright light. "The controls for energy should be over there." Tarishaár pointed to the circular installation in the middle of the tower room.

John nodded, they better started by putting on the lights and power back to the systems. Raising his green light stick, he could see the dark consoles waiting for someone to activate them again. He could see the hand-shaped panel that would allow him to access the main controls. But before he could rest his hand on the device, he heard a dry laughter from somewhere up in the darkness. "I'd never believed to see the day, you would do a Wraith's bidding, Sheppard."

Staring up in the darkness, John tried to see something. "Who are you?" he shouted up there. "And what do you want?"

The laughter was now ironic. "Can't you guess, Sheppard?"

"Well, we'll take a look at it." John let his hand glide down on the panel, hoping the systems would accept him and turn the light on. It went easier than he could hope for, the lights sparked to live, as did the central core between the consoles awoke humming to life.

"I have to thank you, Sheppard. For one last time – the good Dr. Beckett was unable to activate the system." Up on the gallery appeared a figure, looking down on them. "But now you have outlived your usefulness."

"Michael." John wanted to say more, but his words were cut short by Michael's troops appearing out of the side corridors and on the galleries. Diving below the console, he evaded the first shots, coming up to fire back. They were under a three sided attack, and in the open space they were in, this was one bad idea.

The Wraith had understood that the same moment John had, they too saw that they needed to get back to the stairwell, that could be more easily defended against superior numbers. "Fall back! Fall back!" The call echoed hollow from the fortress's walls, amplified just enough to be heard over the noise of battle. John ducked when another exploding plasma ball hit the wall behind him, frying some systems in the process. Left and right of him the team, Wraith and humans began a retreat back towards the great doors. He had no idea how many more of Micheal's creatures would be there, hidden in the shadows of the inner tower. He threw two of the Wraith grenades, precise as his aim they landed on the gallery above, in the middle of a particularly large troop. The explosion shock the walls and the chamber around them, rocks started raining down from the ceiling on the enemy, which occupied them for a short time. But not long. Nothing they did ever stopped them for long. Out of the corner of her eye he saw Illo tossing the last of his conventional grenades onto the other side of the gallery, and another fierce explosion shook the tower hall, burying half a platoon of Michael's warriors before they could advance any further in the direction of their holdout. In a way John was glad to see that Illo had neither lost his head nor his skill, no matter what lay behind him. John knew the next attack would come in a matter of minutes.

The attack came form all sides, even above, out of the broken gallery a whole number of Michael's troops descended down on them, breaking up their formation. John switched from his gun to the blade, it was no use endangering his comrades with friendly fire. Ronon had jumped up, covering John's back. The Satedan had had an unlucky landing, being cornered, and the tallest among their enemies coming down on him. But Ronon did not hesitate for a moment, sword in one hand, knife in the other unleashing a whirlwind attack on his adversary. Even as two other hybrid warriors tried to take him down same time. John leaped into an attack, that misdirected the deadly blow from Ronon. The hybrid warrior, unaware of any new adversary took a serious wound from his blow. John soon found himself not fighting one opponent but four of them. He broke free from his first adversary, spun around and saw himself confronted with a smaller warrior, who had some extra - strong armour, which was slightly a disadvantage for the him, because could not move as deftly as John did. He dodged the first attack, diving below the scimitars, and delivering a thrust upwards, that nearly broke through the armour. But a harsh blow, dealt out with the full strength armoured body of the hybrid warrior, threw him backwards. He jolted, landing on his feet again. He set a hard snap kick against the warrior to his left, toppling him, and unleashed a whirlwind of attacks on the first one, who parried half of them, and suffered some damage from the rest. Caught in between these fighters John had also received the first wounds, nothing really serious by now, but he knew he was not to last long if things went on this way. Again he spun delivering another snap kick catching one of his enemies off guard, he fell backwards, exposing one of the hybrid commanders, who was still fighting Ronon. John sliced him deftly in two pieces and some junk, that littered the ground all around them. One enemy after the other fell from their swords, metal pieces clashing to the ground, dying men in between. John's blade bit deep into their last enemy, the hybrid warrior collapsed and his lifeless body slid to the ground.

John looked around, estimating where some support would be needed most. Too late he saw Michael, who had jumped down from the main gallery, and was standing in the middle of the hall. The hybrid raised his gun and fired the shot before John could react. A nearly brutal kick hit his knees, he stumbled forward, the shot only just missing him. Out of the corner of his eye, he saw Illo, who was down himself, but had used the kick to get John out of the line of fire.

All of sudden the Wraith went into a full attack. Five of them advanced, tackling the hybrids in between them and Michael. John came up again, joining them, as did Ronon, Illo and Ashaviiýr. Cutting their way through the ranks of the hybrid warriors with a fury, and strength that threw them back. Only after cutting down the tenth or eleventh of them, John realised what they had just done: they had cleared a path to Michael himself, and Tarishaár had not hesitated to confront the hybrid.

The hall fell suddenly silent, Wraith and hybrids alike had stopped, watching the fight of their leaders. John, who had fought Michael before, watched with an odd trepidation. The Hybrid had beaten Ronon before, and other good fighters too. Now he stood against an opponent equally strong and fast.

The fight went forth and back, every wound that Tarishaár received was repaid in kind. They were in constant move, attacking, stabbing, slashing, jumping, a blur of movement, of kicks delivered and blocked, of attacks delivered and dodged.

With one powerful kick Tarishaár send Michael flying against the wall, jumping down on him, his blade very nearly got the hybrid, but Michael was already up again, and his dagger hit home, cutting open Tarsihaár's side, lodging itself in his chest. But the hybrid came too close to the Wraith Lord, Tarsihaár's hands came up, getting hold of the hybrid's neck, snapping it, only seconds before the Wraith Lord faltered and fell himself.

The fight that had stopped abruptly, erupted all around them again, but with the hybrid warriors at the distinct advantage of having lost their leader and most of their coordination. It didn't take long until they began to flee.

John had followed Ashaviiýr when the Wraith warrior turned around and hurried back to the point where Tarishaár had gone down. The Wraith Lord had not risen again, the deep wound in his side and chest was bleeding, forming a large stain on the ground. His breath was shallow and pained. John didn't need the assessment of Ashaviiýr, a short shaking of the head, to know the Wraith Lord was in a bad shape. He had seen him like that before, during their flight from the Genii prison. A weak laughter from the Wraith startled him. "The face you make, Sheppard… didn't I tell you back then, that even if it was only for that one day of freedom, it would have been worth it?"

John remembered well, and he still did not really want to know how long Todd had been imprisoned down in the those dark cells. Back then too, Tarishaár had been dying. Dying from wounds too severe even for his Wraith regeneration to handle. Back then he had not exactly cared, not much at least, even if he had told the Wraith that they both would get out of here alive. It seemed ages ago, in another lifetime, nearly like the John Sheppard back there, had not been him, but somebody else, he had known. "You won't die on me," he said, trying to find the casual cocky tones, that had been his trademark once, again, before he gripped the Wraith's right hand, the feeding hand, by the wrist and placed it against his chest. "I won't let you die here."

***

The trip down into the ancient fortress had proven a nightmare for Carson. The systems of the place consequently locked him out, not allowing for the slightest access. But for the longest time Michael had not believed him, and done his best to 'motivate' Carson to cooperate. So Carson was nearly relieved, when Michael left them, guarded by his goons, to take care of something else, a fight by the sounds of it. He crouched down beside Jircanor, who seemed to be unconscious. "I am sorry, my friend." He said, while he quickly assessed the wounds the guards had inflicted on the man. It was nothing that should endanger his life, but bad enough for him to feel it for quite some time.

"It's not your fault, Carson." Jircanor sat up stiffly, his hands where still tied. "Where's the hybrid?"

"He left, somebody else seems to be in the facility." Carson said. "But he left these gentlemen with us."

Suddenly the lights flared to life, bathing the whole corridor in blinding brightness and the systems came to life. Distrustful the guards looked around. Jircanor leaned forward. "It's high time we left this merry party." He said under his breath.

Carson couldn't agree more, but he did not see a way out. "If you have any idea…" One that would not end up in Jircanor being on the receiving end of the next 'motivational' session, once Michael was back with them.

"Some at least. Can you help me up?" Jir asked.

Carson checked the guards, they had their eyes on the corridor and judging by experience would not care if he and Jircanor sat or stood. Not that standing would be much of a good use anyway. Nevertheless he helped Jircanor up, the warrior leaned against the wall, obviously a little dizzy. Carson supported him, before he could collapse again, only the last moment he saw, Jircanor using his tied hands to push a mechanism, not unlike one of the door crystals, into the wall. A white beam enveloped them both.

Stumbling Carson found himself as they rematerialized. His first check was on Jircanor, who showed no signs of dizziness any more, instead he grinned. "Here we go, thanks to whoever put the systems back online."

"You know this place?" Carson asked, while he started untying Jircanor's hands. "What was that… " he pointed around, meaning the beam that brought them here.

"Emergency transport." Jircanor replied. "I have never seen the place myself, but two of my ancestors fought and died here during the great war. The system recognised my DNA, matched it up with Jhandyr's, recognised you as near-ascended and got us both to the infirmary, due to the residue of my injuries."

Carson's look around confirmed their location, the place looked like an ancient infirmary, he knew many of the devices from Atlantis. "But how did you know?" The question was out, even as he realised the answer, he had known it, since he had healed Jircanor, since he had removed this clever manipulation attached to Jircanor's genetics. "Your people… you have a racial memory, don't you?"

Jircanor nodded. "Genetic memory, somewhere deep there most of Jhandyr's memories are, waiting to be triggered. By removing the compulsion, you did not free me alone, you freed generations of my family, in a way." He turned around, taking in their surroundings. "We are deep inside the central spire, possibly past some of the lockdown mechanisms we encountered earlier on. Might take a while to get us out again."

"First, lad, we take care of your injuries." Carson said. "We can take our time in getting out of here, I won't mind not running into Michael again."

"No need for healing, Carson." Jircanor looked slightly puzzled. "You healed most of them, when you woke me up."

Carson stared at him, trying to understand. He had thought he felt some of the injuries, that had made the punishments so hard to bear in the first place. He was sure he had lost most of the abilities the ascension device had given him, should he somehow have retained the ability to heal?

***

The pain was a white hot flame, and it was a rush, like a drug he would become addicted to all too easily. The more the flame was burning, the more intense the pain, the more intense to glorious feeling to be alive, to burn with live.

The sensation faded but this time it left John not exhausted but energized, he felt he'd be able to get up and rip apart whatever was left of those hybrid goons. Tarishaár rose again, fully healed now. Their eyes met, none of them daring to speak, to put into words what had just transpired. The moment broke, when one of the Wraith warriors returned, reporting that the enemy had fled and the area was secure.

John nodded. "Time to find the chair room."

Another long corridor stretched in front of them, they could see traces of Michael's troops here and there, but beyond skirmishes they ran into no further resistance. At the end of the corridor John could see something like a forcefield, glittering in pale green light. He blinked as his vision began to blur again.

_Another group of Wraith came up the stairwell, trying to escape the trap down there. Lucian and his men blocked the way, it was gory fighting: knifes and blades, Ulaks and stilettos, Wraith claws and bare hands. Five or six of the Wraith broke through, Lucian let them go, the other troops could take of them further up in the tower. A rumble rose from below and four more Wraith stormed at them, desperate to get out. Lucian took down two of them, the others were taken care of by his troops. _

_A __sudden push brought Lucian nearly down, behind him was a Wraith, blades descending down on him. Jhandyr pushing him out of harms way, catching the Wraith blade with his body, burying his Ulak's in the Wraith's body, dragging his opponent down with him. _

_Helplessly Lucian saw Jhandyr slide down. Struggling to his feet, he knelt down beside the fallen __Dhemarigán. It did no need to ask, or call for a medic, he knew it was too late. Within moments Jhandyr slipped away, the wound taking it's toll. "To obey without question, to fight any foe and to give our life without hesitation or regrets in the defense or Lantea." Helion slowly quoted the words for his dying brother, a tradition among __Dhemarigán. To Lucian the words rang hollow._

John found himself standing right in front of the forcefield, the flashback memories more vivid than ever before. Standing right in front of it, he raised his hand, until it nearly touched the streams of energy. Somehow he knew this was the only way through here. A bright light broke out of the shield, touching his body, scanning him. _Welcome home_ a disembodied voice whispered. Another hand touched John's, he could see a man standing on the other side of the forcefield, mirroring his gesture, their hands nearly touched through the field. He was tall, had long, dark hair and gray eyes, John knew he was seeing Lucian, General of the Lantean armies. It was as if he had known him all along, long before coming here, long before he ever came to Atlantis. The shield collapsed and with it, the mirror image waned, their way lay open into the inner spire.

"John… did you see that too?" Illo asked, his gaze still on the point where the image had vanished.

"Yeah, he was the General of this outpost, his name was Lucian." John replied, still trying to understand the odd connection he felt to the man.

"He bore a great resemblance to you."

John didn't answer, because his eyes caught a movement deeper down the long corridor. Two men were walking swiftly towards the collapsed forcefield. He couldn't believe what he saw. One of them was Carson Beckett, however he had managed to get here. And the other… for a moment John's perspective became unstable when he recognized Jircanor, and recognized someone else the same moment.

"Colonel!" Beckett's voice rang with relief and joy. "Lad, it is great to see you alive." Happy as he was he even disregarded the Wraith present.

"What are you doing here?" They had just worked all their way in here to find Beckett and Jircanor inside?

"That's a long story." Beckett said. "Basically Michael wanted me to release a Wraith 'first one' and we barely managed to get out of their hands." He stopped. "And you… you are here for the same purpose, aren't you?"

Contrary to Beckett, Jircanor was calm. "I guess they are, Carson." He said without any accusation.

John nodded. "It's a very long story, Carson."

***

The chair felt different from the chairs he had sat in before. More alive, more vibrant and he understood the systems far better. Or no, he did not understand them, he was just able to communicate with them, to talk to them. It wasn't hard to find the system that controlled the cryo chamber.

"_So the day has come."_

John knew the voice instantaneously. It was Lucian speaking to him in his mind. "I gave my word," he thought back. "I told him that I'd help rescue his friend."

"_I always knew the time would come." _Lucian replied. _Imprisoning an enemy is not a solution, only a measure to buy more time._

"So you wanted to buy more time, for what?" John asked back.

"_Time for the world to grow, and perhaps to find a solution to the terrible mistake that was made."_

"You mean exposing yourself and humans to the Iratus bug?"

"_Partially. We came to a galaxy and seeded human life, disregarding the fact that other life was around. Forms of life that drew energy and emotions from each other, that could become immune to the same in the process. We were a foreign element brought into this ecosystem. And when I was forbidden to stay and to fight for the people we brought here, I hoped to at least gain them enough time to evolve far enough to adapt to their new home."_

"So taking the first one out, helped you how?"

"_It took out their leader, the last and most brilliant of their leaders, out of the equation. Your friend Tarishaár was one of his best and most loyal during the first war. I remember him well."_

"You don't hate him."

"_The Wraith too are a species we created, not intentionally, and while they might be a formidable foe, and a danger beyond what we encountered before, I came to respect many of their leaders and extraordinary warriors throughout the long war." _

"So you think that we might have a better solution than you did?"

"_You already began finding one, incomplete as it is, but if you keep looking, keep working on it and relying on those who do the same, I am sure you will succeed where we failed."_

For a moment John felt again, the mind to mind closeness, he had shared with Lucian earlier on. Before it slowly began to fade, like an echo ringing out slowly.


	22. Epilog: The long way home

**Epilog: The long way home**

_I__isaac's knife can cut away  
all the poisoned yesterdays  
and the anger ease it down  
into the ocean let it drown  
as far as east is from the west  
I let you go I know it's best  
and my answer to the years of strife  
is the way I choose to live my life_

_(Over the Rhine: Moth)_

The sun was setting above the ruins of the fortress. John blinked up the skies where blood red light and dark clouds mingled, the first stars sparkled in the gaps in between. Despite all that transpired down in the ruins, he was oddly at peace. His eyes went over to the other Wraith, standing beside Tarishaár, both of them talked. John wasn't sure, but they appeared to be two of the same kind, he had had no chance to talk to Carson, to learn more about what had happened to Scottish doctor. But judging by the way Jircanor reacted, Carson had just managed to become Androclus to another lion. It was good Michael was already dead, or John might have teamed up with the other Runner just to finish this creature messing with one of his – probably their – friends.

He saw Tarishaár approach, the Wraith strode up to the place where John was still standing. For a moment both of them regarded the other silently. There was too much that was not said, and more that they might say, but nearly nothing they dared to put into words. "So, this is where we part ways, huh?" John asked, trying to sound casual. He was frightened a little how much he had accepted the presence of the Wraith, or that he might forced to stay with them some more time.

"The gate of this planet is below the fortress," Tarishaár replied. "and when we meet again…"

All bets are off, John's words after escaping Koljya echoed in the unfinished sentence. Only that John knew, that there would never be all bets off again between them. "then we'll remember that we're brothers," he said.

"We will, John Sheppard." The Wraith replied, before he turned, and returned to his troops that were awaiting him.

Ashaviiýr moved from his position, in the shadows near John and walked up to him. He moved into his line of sight, so John could see him, as to not startle his reflexes. John was astonished that the wraith warrior was still here, but then he had gotten to his presence during the last days. "So I take it, you will return to the troops?" he asked, he had never figured out what rank Ashaviiýr actually held.

The Wraith warrior didn't answer at once, he just silently studied John, like he was trying to mark John's picture in his mind. "You sure, you don't need somebody to cover your back, where you are going?" he asked then.

John had to try hard not to drop his chin too obviously. "I am returning to Atlantis, Ashaviiýr, that's not exactly a place where you want to go. And… well there would always be the feeding issue." He couldn't believe he was searching for rational arguments on that case. But the Wraith looked dead serious.

"We Wraith can live some months without food, if necessary, and you have enemies you fight." He observed.

He was more than serious, John could see that. If John said the word, Ashaviiýr would follow him to Atlantis, right into the heart of a bastion of his people's enemies. What had he done to inspire such a loyalty, John wondered. "My people would never allow you to go free." John said.

Ashaviiýr nodded, withdrawing a small item from his belt. "Should you ever need help, call for me." He handed John the small Wraith device before he walked away too.

Turning around John met the eyes of his friends. Ronon's were understanding, and calm. He had been there himself. Jircanor and Carson had been talking among themselves, and John knew that the Doctor wouldn't judge him easily. And Illo was silently waiting in some distance, ready to move on the moment John was ready.

"Time to go home." The word's echoed strangely in his ears. Returning to home… to Atlantis. The though of having a home felt strange after all the time. He started walking, his friends followed, walking left and right of him down to the gate.

***

"Unscheduled off-world activation! Unscheduled off-world activation!" The words interrupted the last preparations for the team preparing to leave for Belkan. General O'Neill scowled, they had a schedule if they wanted to meet their contact. "Chuck, whoever it is, tell him he dialed the wrong number!" he shouted up.

"Sir – we're receiving an IDC!" Chuck's eyes were fixed on the monitors in front of him as he shouted back. "Sir, it's Captain Schmiedeberg!"

Two sides, two options warred in O'Neill. The long term team-leader would not hesitate to open the iris … lower the shield or whatever and let the homecoming survivors back in, the base-commander knew very well that the man in question had been captured, possibly interrogated and most likely given up information regarding the IDC. O'Neill understood in this moment the dilemma Hammond had faced countless times. He weighted the facts he had, Schmiedeberg was quite resourceful and had escaped captivity on his own before, but he was rather inexperienced in regards of off-world enemies. Two response teams were already taking their place, and the departing team provided additional backup. O'Neill stepped back, out of the direct firing zone. "Lower the shield!" He called up to Chuck.

The shield fell and when O'Neill saw multiple persons stepping out of the gate, he assumed for a moment, that his negative assumptions had been right. Until he recognized the people that came walking towards them: in the very middle walked Sheppard, a rugged, longhaired and wilder looking version of the Colonel, right behind Sheppard came Specialist Dex, largely unchanged judging by the pictures in his files, on the other side he saw Captain Schmiedeberg, a little roughed up, but not worse for wear it seemed, and with them were Dr. Beckett and the formerly dying Runner, Jircanor.

O'Neill had to utilize all his self control not to stare dumbfounded, had Hammond felt like this, when SG-1 came back to everyone's surprise, having pulled another minor miracle? "Defense teams, stand down." He ordered, before walking up to the five men. "Welcome home, all of you." He said. "Colonel Sheppard, it's good to have you back, Schmiedeberg – good to see you alive." He allowed himself a half-grin. "and I expect a full report, but no more than 50 pages." He turned to Beckett. "I don't know how you got there, with your Runner patient…"

"That's a very long story, General." Beckett replied. "But to set your fears at ease: Jircanor's tracker was removed, he's no danger for us here."

"Well, that's what I call good news…." O'Neill was interrupted suddenly.

One of the marines on leaving the gateroom passed by Sheppard's back, not intending anything else, but leaving but he startled Sheppard, who came around in one lighting swift move, his hand coming up, hitting precisely the throat of the marine, a kick threw the man across then room. Two more Marines raised their weapons, Ronon fell into battle stance, guarding Sheppard's back. Schmiedeberg stepped between Sheppard and the Marines. "Everyone calm down!" He kept his hands in clear line of sight of everyone. "John, we're on safe grounds."

***

O'Neill reached the infirmary about tow hours later. He noticed at once, that most of the nurses and personnel were tiptoeing around, and second that Beckett was already doing examinations again. He was the only one who seemed largely unperturbed by the three Runners. "Shouldn't you be a patient too, for a change?" O'Neill said jokingly, when the Doctor left his patients, who sat on the infirmary beds and talked among themselves.

"Jennifer handled my examination first, and she's taking care of the Captain." Beckett said. "She startled Jircanor, and didn't really like a knife on her throat. So we decided she takes the patients and I take care of my lions." He chuckled about the private joke.

O'Neill quirked an eyebrow. That sounded like Teal'c in his first some weeks on Earth. "You seem to be unafraid." He observed, Beckett was completely at ease with the three of them and by what had nearly happened up at the gate, O'Neill guessed that they were potentially the three most deadly fighters on the base.

"General, the simple rule is: never startle them. I make sure they hear me, before I come close. They pick up on individual patterns really fast, most of the time they know by my steps it's me and stay relaxed." Beckett put away some items, and looked directly at O'Neill. "I understand many things now, that I observed in Ronon when he first came here. In these last days I have seen some of the world they live in, and I… I can only admire how they managed to stay sane, let alone relatively balanced individuals."

"You care a lot about your 'lions', don't you?" O'Neill asked uncharacteristically serious. He could see that Beckett was close to those three.

"Aye, I do." Beckett's eyes strayed to the three men, who still sat there, talking. "Those lads have lived fighting and running for a long time, General. 'Us against the world' is the attitude. Ordinary people would have cracked under the strain a long time ago. And for my part, I consider them friends. Even as this means going out there with them again, or learning to survive the way they do."

"What are you talking about?" O'Neill asked slightly irritated.

"That's what you try to find out, isn't it, General? Whether they are stable, whether they can be trusted? Whether John will be able to take up his old post again." Carson replied.

O'Neill rolled his eyes. "For the record, Doctor: I don't leave people out there, and I sure as hell won't kick them out. Sheppard will need time to recover, to get out of the woods again, but he'll manage. He is a strong man. Specialist Dex won't have changed much from what he was when he first came here. And Jircanor… we'll see about him." O'Neill shook his head. He wasn't one of the bean counters in the Pentagon and said bean counters were far away – luckily. "What about Schmiedeberg?" He asked, getting their conversation back to the point.

"He is relatively well, disregarding some bruises and scratches." Keller replied. She had come over only just now. "he has been patched up by exotic means that much is for sure too. Otherwise he is fine not exactly forthcoming with information, especially about this scar at his throat…"

"Jennifer, that's a sensitive topic, perhaps you should be careful to broach the subject." Carson interjected. "Our psychologist should take care of that."

"Oh, if you already know more…"Keller was clearly a little put off.

"I heard John talking to Illo about it, after he was done with the chair, and we were waiting for the Wraith to report back, if he had succeeded." Carson said. "John was very, very careful about the topic, more careful than I'd expect with a direct man like him. And from what I could gather, he had all reason to be so."

O'Neill picked up on Carson's tone easily. "Interrogated?" he asked in lower tones. He had been there himself, more times than he cared to count. The goa'uld held the record there, but they had not been the only ones.

Carson nodded but did not say a thing before Jennifer had left. "General, I would usually not go any further, but I am also aware that as their commanding officer you are entitled to certain information."

O'Neill again saw that Beckett worried about one of his patients. "Beckett, I have been there myself, I know what it is. If he broke, talked, was coerced into collaboration… well it has happened to others before, and I won't believe him weak for it."

"He didn't break, he tried to take his own life, before he could reach that point." Carson glanced over to them again. "It will long way out of the woods for them, all of them."

O'Neill silently agreed.

***

John had to try very hard to not fling McKay across the room, when the scientist hugged him suddenly. It was the next noon, and he still felt like a stranger in the city he knew so well. McKay had jumped at him, when he had come to the mess hall to find some food. Only the voice, constantly talking like always, warned him. Still, it took all effort he could muster to not react harsh, but just hug McKay back. Teyla came right behind Rodney, smiling brightly at him. "Welcome home, John. We have missed you."

John smiled back, he was glad to see them again, but it still felt unreal. Like he was walking in a dream. "How's little Torren John?" he asked after a moment of silence, unsure what he could say else.

"He is fine," Teyla smiled. "and ever since he met 'Uncle Jack' he insists on having a dog." She opened her arms and after waiting just long enough, so John would get her intentions, she hugged him too. "you are back." She repeated again. "I feared we might have lost you forever." John hugged he back, holding her close. He didn't know what to say at her happiness, her words. So he just held her, wordlessly. And for the first time he realized that he truly had come home.

Ronon had left John to Teyla and McKay's care, as far as care would be needed, while he himself made his way down to the west pier, where the Athosian quarters where. It took him some asking, politely as possible, before he was pointed to a youth, about sixteen years old. "Athalwyn?" he asked, when he reached the young man.

The young one looked up. "Yes. Can I help you somehow? If this is about Rodney's banto sticks, he found them again…"

Ronon wondered what Rodney wanted with Banto sticks, but perhaps the whinny scientist had grown a little, without John and Ronon to look out for him. "No, I came here because of something else. During my time as a captive, I met a young man by the name of Bane." He said. "And he told me that a friend of mine, Avila survived the culling of Sateda and is still out there. He also claimed my son would be with him and pointed me to you, should I want to find them."

Athalwyn went some steps, towards one of the windows of the corridor. "It is true. Avila escaped Sateda, bringing with him a group of children and youngsters. Among them a boy named Avila Dex." Athalwyn replied. "He raised him among the Satedan Blades, and he earned his battle name when he fourteen."

"Fourteen? He earned his battle name so young?" Ronon couldn't help it, his voice was proud. The boy must be one hell of a fighter to take down his first Wraith group alone so young. "Can you pass a message along, that I'd like to meet him. And my friend Avila too." Perhaps there was something else among the survivors of Sateda then just traitors and opportunists.

Athalwyn looked uncomfortable. "You.. you were the one who killed Kell, so you'd know about him," he avoided looking at Ronon. "Avila Dex scratched that part off his name, when he heard, he took his battle name as a true second name instead."

Ronon nodded, he could clearly see that this boy was not Satedan himself, but had lived among them for a time. "He did right. Kell was a traitor. So what's the problem about it?"

Athalwyn took a deep breath. "Ronon,… Avila's battle name… it is…" he shook his head. "His full name these days is Avila Bane Dex."

"Captain, when I said a full report, I didn't mean something of a length that eve the IOA would never finish reading it." O'Neill had both report files open on his screen, but let the man standing in front of his desk, not see it.

"I am sorry, Sir. That actually **is** the IOA version. As the IOA insisted on sending a non-American officer here, they saw it fit to ask for detailed reports." His eyes were straight on the wall, he mien impassive. "and I saw it fit, to forward it to you previously."

"Well then, I won't deprive them of a good long read." O'Neill suppressed a grin. The man was used to quite a lot of political oversight, that much was clear. "There is another issue I have to discuss with you."

"Of course, Sir."

O'Neill rolled his eyes. "Sit down, this could take a while." Schmiedeberg followed the invitation and sat down. O'Neill waited a moment before he went on. "With Sheppard and Lorne we have most of our old command staff back here."

Schmiedeberg nodded an affirmative. "When do I ship back to Earth?" He inquired. "Daedalus should be back in two months."

"That's what I wanted to talk to you about." O'Neill leaned his elbows on the desk. "You did good on your time here. Not always by the book, but good and I'd like to keep you on the team. Hell, Caldwell thinks the world of you and has a dozen or so people up in arms to keep you in Sheppard's position." The last was true but a bait.

Schmiedeberg leaned back, his shoulders flexing slightly. "How badly to I have to take him down, when he arrives here, for a demotion and shipping back to Earth?" he asked, without any humor in his voice.

"The hell you will," O'Neill could well imagine Schmiedeberg might go through on the suggestion. "and you won't get yourself demoted or dishonorably discharged for beating up Caldwell, is that clear?!"

"Crystal, Sir."

"Quite the contrary, I had a lengthy discussion with General von Aue, and he agrees with me, that it is time to make your promotion, the one that has been under wraps for some time now, official." O'Neill had gotten Landry to arrange the conference call and then route it through the gate, during the last contact twenty four hours ago.

"Sir, this promotion was never official because…"

"Because all of what happened on that road from Maywand and Kandahar had never happened, because neither we nor you can ever admit openly, who it was you caught that day and turned over to us." O'Neill was very well aware that this last fact had to stay under wraps for the rest of their natural lives, along with all the other things that had transpired that day. "But in the light that you were crucial to the rescue of one of our men, out of enemy hands and the fact that the mission to Belgrad is no longer top secret – Congratulations, Major and welcome to the SGC."

Night had fallen over Atlantis again, but O'Neill had no eyes for the spectacular view, albeit he was walking on one of the galleries above the pier. "Have you thought about what you will do, now that you can stop running?" he asked the man, who was standing there, staring out into the night.

Jircanor turned around, leaning against the railing. "As a matter of fact, I have. Out there the war with the Wraith is still raging, it never ended for ten thousand years, and I'll go and join the fighting."

"You are aware, that this isn't much of a plan?" O'Neill asked.

"General, I am aware, that you don't think much of the resistance this galaxy can mount these days, but it is all there is and even as the war with the Wraith can't be won in our generation, we still can make a good dent into their ranks."

O'Neill leaned against the railing too, tempted to sit on it. "You know about ten years ago, we ran into this race, nasty snakes living in people's heads, pretending to be gods. During one of those first encounters I ran into that guy, First Prime of Apophis, leader of his armies and so forth… he had his doubts about the whole god-thing and the moment he saw we were well up to fighting them, he switched sides and joined us. Years later I learned that deep down in his heart he never believed that the Goa'uld could be defeated, but that didn't stop him to try, to fight as hard as he could."

"And?" Jircanor asked. "were they defeated?"

O'Neill grinned, "We kicked their asses, kicked them royally. Lost some battles too, had some close calls, but in the end we won out. And now we are here, head to head with this species our ancestors created by accident. The question is – do you have the same courage? Not just to fight alongside whatever rag-tag troop you can find, but to go and take some more responsibility?" O'Neill met the eyes of the former Runner calmly and he saw that he had not miscalculated.

"What do you have in mind?" Jircanor asked.

"There are two things we are lacking sorely: Ancient equipment and Intel." O'Neill explained. "Yes, we have good contacts, but the moment we need to snoop around for information, to go unseen to some place, we are way out of our depth. I remember it well myself: we come walking into a village and all the natives know that some weird strangers have arrived. You on the other hand can probably walk among them, and they'll believe you to be a traveler." He stopped for a moment, then went on. "And there are more like you, out there. I want you to built up a network, a network of people that gather intel for us, that can support us when trouble erupts, that can retrieve things we can not reach without causing a major ruckus."

"You are thinking of creating a kind of native auxiliaries." Jircanor summed it up. "acting in the shadows."

"In a way." O'Neill thought about his next words for a moment. "When we went against the Goa'uld we had intel, not always solid, but Teal'c knew a lot about them, he had the military mindset that he knew what facts were important for us. And that intel is what we are lacking here. And if you and your people happen to come across some ancient remains, like a ZPM or so…"

"I guess you need more to power the city, it is under constraint." Jircanor observed.

"It needs three ZPM's to power the city." O'Neill replied. "We have one."

"Six, you need six to power the full defenses and the start drive." Jircanor said. "and it only works with someone really good in the chair to take control. If you need ZPM's why don't you clear out one of the Ancient supply depots? They had set them up in many places in case their ships were in dire need."

"You see – that's the kind of intel I mean." O'Neill said. "You know some of those depots, I take it?"

Jircanor's smile was odd. "Strictly speaking, I don't. But Jhandyr did, and thus I remember." He turned to O'Neill. "Would it be possible for Carson to remove trackers from some more people?"

"You mean to recruit some more Runners for the network?" O'Neill inquired. "If Beckett could take care of your tracker, then I guess he'll be able to do this for others too."

"Then, General, you have your network, your warriors of the shadow." A firm handshake sealed the new alliance.

The night was late and Atlantis had fallen silent. John Sheppard stood high up on one of the spires and watched the dawn rise slowly over the waters. General O'Neill had told him that he expected him to take up his duty soon. It still seemed odd that he was here again, without the Wraith chasing after him. And it seemed equally weird that he had been away for more than one year. It felt like he had left only yesterday, but the same moment the city felt so foreign, like he had never known her before.

Steps made him turn around, Ronon and Teyla walked up to him, Major Lorne was with them. The friends who had never given up on him, no matter what. Rodney came shortly behind them, having heroically managed to stay up until now, he definitely whined less than he once had. Still John's eyes were searching for three other people and he found them, Illo, Jircanor and Carson came silently up the stairs, joining them on the gallery. With all of them around him, John knew more than ever that he was home, he had arrived at the end of the long journey. He knew their home would need defending, he knew they still were in a galaxy full of unknown dangers, and that there were far more dangers than only the Wraith he had learned during his short stint in the dark space. None of them spoke, they all knew that the times ahead of them would be dangerous, who could say what the future held in store for them?

"Whatever it is, we'll face it together." John wasn't aware that he spoken aloud, until Teyla laid a hand on his shoulder. "Together." She said. Ronon nodded, "Together" he echoed. Rodney blinked. "Of course… together." He said. Lorne and Illo joined in, as did Carson and Jircanor.

A feeling like he had suddenly broken his chains and grown wings, woke inside John. He felt stronger and more confident than he had in a very long time. No matter what would come, they'd stand together, they'd face it together.

Far on the eastern skies, over the crashing waves rose a new day.

_Stay near to me as I stay near to you_

_As near as you are dear to me will do. _

_Near as the rainbow to the rain, _

_The west wind to the windowpane, _

_As fire to the hearth, as dawn to dew. _

_Stay true to me and I'll stay true to you_

_As true as you are new to me will do. _

_New as the rainbow in the spray, _

_Utterly new in every way. _

_New in the way that what you say is true. _

_Stay near to me, stay true to me, I'll stay, _

_As near as true to you as heart could pray. _

_Heart never hoped that you could be, _

_Half of the things you are to me –_

_The dawn, the fire, the rainbow and the day. _

_(James Fenton: Hinterhof)_


End file.
